Songbird
by CSI Clue
Summary: After Robert Merivel regains the king's favor and Bidnold, what else is there to gain? based on characters from the movie "Restoration"
1. Chapter 1

_Part one: Gilded Cage_

She was, Merivel decided, a thrush.

Court held birds of a great many sort; his Majesty the King was clearly the eagle of his realm overseeing all that happened around him with a keen eye, plumage majestic.

There were elegant swans and sleepy-eyed doves and lush little quail everywhere about, preening and cooing and oh so easily, deliciously caught behind hedges. There were bright, brassy canaries and lovebirds and scarlet tanagers flitting about court everywhere. One had to but reach out a hand and a bird would be in it, giggling sweetly.

And everyone knew the saying about a bird in the hand, of course, although pursuing two in the bush was ever a charming hobby as well, particularly in spring.

Nevertheless, there were other avian species at court, and Merivel knew them too. The disapproving vultures, like the King's Majordomo. The warhawks, bringing his Majesty news of the piracy and privateering in the New World. The foreign fowl from French bantams to Dutch geese to Spanish cockerels, prancing to catch the King's eye.

And then there were little thrushes like this one, perched on a garden wall, holding what appeared to be . . . a book.

He studied her, trying not to be seen doing it, and took in her features carefully.

Not pretty, but fair. She had brown hair, and although it was neatly done up after court fashion, the curls were loose and natural. Her dress was . . . plain. Good quality dark green silk, but minimal embroidery, and no jewels or brocade or ornamentation to speak of. Had it not been for her pearl drop earrings and the book, Merivel might have thought her one of the servants of the court in a moment of repose.

He moved closer, wondering what held her interest so intently, and marveling that she _could_ read. Not many ladies in waiting had the learning to, beyond a few Bible verses, or sheet music, and the tome in her hand looked to be a serious one, heavy and dull-covered.

She didn't look up as he approached, but she spoke. "Sir, I say this with no intent of flirtation or intrigue—please leave me."

"Madame?" he replied, momentarily startled by her resigned tone. She looked up briefly and seemed to recognize him as she cocked her head.

"You are Lulu's champion . . . Merivel. Your kindness to dogs gives you some credit in your favor. Pray show your gentlemanly courtesy and leave me to my pastime."

"Indeed, I shall," he nodded, and moved to go, then turned around and held up a hand apologetically. "Once . . . I know what has you so enthralled."

Her look was one of amused exasperation. "Does it matter in the least?"

"The very least," Merivel countered, warming quickly to the sport of provoking her. She was certainly different from the other ladies at court, who would have at least bantered back.

She held up the book, and he could barely make out the letters on the cover, so faded was the gilt.

"_La coquette vengée," _he murmured stepping forward, and shot her a puzzled look.

The Flirt Avenged," she translated wryly. "Written four years ago, but still well-sought and worth the only free time I have which is now being whittled away by a lackwit."

"As you say," he murmured, tilting his head in meek acknowledgement, "Having spent my time on Latin over French, I am at a loss to know the title or author."

"Authoress," the girl corrected, and gave him a smile of half-apology, "and as for my manners, I beg your indulgence. My courses are upon me, and such always puts me in foul humors."

Merivel blinked a little, startled at the girl's utter bluntness; to speak of such a thing to a new acquaintance, particularly a man was astonishing, even for court. She caught his expression and held it, her expressing daring him to say _anything._

"Ah," he managed, and felt his face redden. "I . . . have just remembered a prior engagement," Merivel turned to go, but after a few paces, added over his shoulder, "Willow bark. In a tea. The Mistress of the Bedchamber has stock of it. Two teaspoons brewed for ten minutes."

He risked a peek at the girl and she was looking at him with a peculiar expression; one he hadn't seen in a long time.

True surprise.

*** *** ***

She felt rather sorry for him. Miriam had seen it all before; the King was notorious for playing favorites, and fond of elevating one over the other in a constant game of emotional chess. His Majesty's game was the only one with several queens to one king, and pawns everywhere.

Including herself, at times.

Still, as the queen's distant cousin, Miriam knew that she held a bit more status than others on the board, and she'd learned long ago how to move discreetly around the more flamboyant and lively members of court. Merivel was just another little piece on the board, moved into position to marry Lady Celia last night, and now drunk and asleep out here on the floor.

_Poor little pawn_, she thought, bending to look at him. She held a draught of coffee, still hot from the kitchen, and waved it under his nose. He stirred, blinking heavily, his eyes unfocused and his beard heavy in the morning light.

"Is it . . . what day is it?"

"Day enough," she replied, and pressed the rim of the cup to his lower lip. "Drink and clear your head."

He took a sip and spluttered, but Miriam held the cup steady and he slowly drank the rest in quicker gulps, his body flinching at bit at the heat and bitterness. When he was done, Miriam pulled the cup back and looked at him thoughtfully as he did the same to her.

"T-thank you," he coughed. "I think."

"You're welcome," she told him, rising up. "And now you have your toilette to attend to, sir, since the King will want his costume back."

He said nothing, his expression suddenly haunted, his face melancholy and it was a look that made Miriam pity him all the more. She held out a hand and he took it, letting her pull him to his unsteady feet.

"You have the advantage of me, madame," he murmured, running a hand through his disheveled hair under his lopsided wig.

"Nearly everyone at court does," she replied, but gently, and smiled as she said it, adding with a curtsey, "Miriam Maria Isabella Branzaga, in waiting to her Majesty, queen Catherine."

"The . . . reader," he mumbled in recognition. "Something about a flirt."

"The same. And thank you for your advice about the willow bark," she added gently. "I must attend to other matters, but I . . . congratulate you on your marriage."

"Marriage," he echoed faintly, and Miriam fervently hoped that Lady Celia would treat him well, and worried that she would not.

Court intrigue could be very cruel, she knew only too well.

"Yes. I will light a candle in the chapel for you," she added, leaving him to decide if it was in celebration or not. Carefully Miriam curtseyed again and left him, hoping for the best.

*** *** ***

Life away from court was very different; certainly not like Hospital either, and Merivel wasn't sure yet if he liked it or not. Yes, the estate was magnificent, and the quiet support of Will and the rest of the servants made it easier to mourn the loss of other, brighter company for a while.

Still, it was difficult to pass the days without court distractions, and certainly harder to cope in the face of widely-known cuckoldry. Not that Merivel was in any position to object, but the pain was far more personal now, and he acknowledged that only to himself.

The restyling of Bidnold had been fun, and the party afterwards a bit more so, but the arrival of Celia had put matters into a different light indeed, and his mood swung from elation to despair as he tried to win her. Finn's arrival hadn't helped matters at all.

And then the terrible spiral of deceit, one slow step downward with each deed. The forgeries, the delays, the foolish trust in Elias Finn, and finally, Celia's cold and haughty rejection. Everything lost. Merival stood before the king, listening to his Majesty's clear and unemotional dismissal and wished himself dead.

As he forlornly walked away, the silver locket bouncing against his chest, Merivel chanced to look up at catch sight of a woman on the staircase, coming down. He nearly looked away until he realized he recognized her, and slowed his steps, wondering what to say, if anything.

He didn't want to speak; his personal pain was still too bleak and new, but she caught up to him and curtseyed quickly. "Merivel," she said softly.

"Lady . . . Maria?" he ventured, tonelessly.

"Miriam. Here," unceremoniously she shoved a wooden box at him and he took it without resisting. "T'is yours, I believe. You left it behind before going to Bidnold. Take it."

Looking down he recognized the case for his second-best hoboy, and his fingers clenched around it firmly. "Th-thank you. This is an unexpected charity, although . . . you seem to extend them to me with regularity."

The woman's mouth twisted slightly at the corner, and he noted a tiny gap in her front teeth, charming in its own way. "You are a good man in . . . difficult circumstances," she muttered, "And t'is unfortunate that you have been played a fool. I wish you well, and envy you the quitting of this place."

"Envy me?" he questioned, his tone slightly bitter. "Lady, I would trade places with you in the beat of my heart, believe you me."

She laughed softly. "You would not. For one matter, you'd be far prettier than I in a skirt and liable to catch his Majesty's eye in a fashion that would not end well when he discovered the deception. And for the other, gilded and beautiful though it is, Merivel, a cage is still . . . a cage."

He felt himself smile briefly, and took her hand, giving it a courtly kiss before speaking again. "Still, I am grateful. I bid you farewell, Lady Miriam."

"God speed you, sir," she replied, turned back for the stairs once again. Merivel watched her go and turned himself for the stables, cheered ever so slightly by the tiny kindness.

*** *** ***

Miriam didn't think of Merivel again for a long time; matters at court were in a state of constant agitation, and she spent her days alternately attending the queen or reading in the library. Then the news of the plague swept through the court, and the King made it known that all would be moving to Oxfordshire, which put even more turmoil into matters. Most of the ladies in waiting were panic-stricken at the thought of death or worse, disfigurement, and their frightened chatter made Miriam's head ache.

She was no fool; plague was dangerous of course, but if one took precautions, prayed and kept from running about like a headless chicken, matters were manageable. Miriam helped the queen and the mistresses pack, watched over the children, and supervised the crating of the dogs, hoping all the while that distance would help relax the tensions throughout the court.

In that first year, news came of a further disgrace for Merivel. Miriam heard it as the latest portrait of the king's favorite was unloaded and hung in his Majesty's bedroom. The artist, Elias Finn oversaw it, and chattily told her all that had transpired before inviting her to examine the painting. It was a beautiful piece, and although she wasn't fond of cherubs, the man's skill was not to be denied.

Finn preened at her admiration and after that, pursued her for a while; a situation that left Miriam not a little unsettled. He was a fop and a bit of a bore, but at least he spoke to her of matters other than the latest gossip, and that was . . . diverting.

For a while.

Then his true intent came out, and Miriam did not fancy being used as a conduit of commissions to the queen and her noble relatives in Portugal. She told Finn so bluntly as he painted her portrait. He merely smiled and kept painting, producing in his revenge, a picture of her that was in a word, hideous. He'd widened the gap in her teeth, left her hair looking lank, and exaggerated her natural roundness.

Miriam laughed and paid him for it. "A lovely piece, sir, and ever a reminder against the sin of vanity. I thank you for your talent and time."

The queen was horrified, but Miriam urged her not to dismiss Finn. "Good artists are difficult to find, mi Infanta; besides, what true harm has he done? I am neither a princess nor a mistress; I have no worries that some suitor will ever see this work."

In private, she wept. Although not generally vain, Miriam felt the sting of Finn's scorn, and although it lessened over time, she never forgot it. Nor did she destroy the ugly portrait, which hung in her small quarters, a reminder of the foibles of life at court.


	2. Chapter 2

_Part two: For Services Rendered_

Celia had broad hips, Merivel noted with relief, but said nothing, knowing the comment would be disputed between her gasped breaths and curses. To take her attention away from the labor of labor would be unkind, and yet he had little fear of difficulty. Next to him in the darkened bedchamber, Biddy White nodded knowingly, and he smiled at her.

A good, faithful woman was Biddy White. Both he and Margaret adored her, and she knew birthing well. Celia would have an easy time of it delivering, vanity or no.

"Push, my poppet," Biddy encouraged Celia, mopping her brow a bit. "Soon t'will be all done."

Celia groaned again, clutching the sheets. "Such agony! Is it _always_ like this?"

"You are bearing like a champion," Merivel assured her, and the king will be overjoyed with your child."

That seemed to reassure her; Celia managed a quick smile, and then curled up, pushing hard as another cramp rolled through her. Within the hour, Merivel was wiping off a red-faced, squalling baby boy, and feeling a quiet joy at a job well-done. He was a round, loud little thing, but settled down once Biddy White swaddled him up and gave him over to Celia's waiting arms.

"A son . . ." Celia murmured with tired pride. "I have given the king a son!"

"Indeed," Biddy White murmured. "Lie still now lovey, and rest."

Merivel left the room and a few corridors away, found the king pacing around a large table that held plans for the rebuilding of the burned areas of London. His Highness looked up sharply, concern etched on his face.

"Lady Celia is well, and . . . congratulations, your Majesty. You have a son," Merivel murmured, bowing slightly.

Charles' expression shifted rapidly, growing into a delighted and relieved smile. He reached out and clapped Merivel on both shoulders. "Splendid! Oh this is a marvelous day, and my many thanks to you, Merivel, for bringing Celia safely through this birth!"

"It is my pleasure to serve," Merivel replied frankly. And it was; this return to the craft of medicine kept him well-grounded and content now. That, and Margaret, who was growing like a weed back at Bidnold.

"T'is, isn't it?" the King observed him keenly. "You are less the fool and more the man now, Merivel, and your service this day will be rewarded, I promise you. A son! What think you of the name Edward?"

"A fine name," Merivel agreed patiently. "I think Lady Celia will agree to it when you see her."

"Yes, I shall, straightaway," the king agreed, and dismissed Merivel, who finally relaxed. He made his way to the kitchens, giving instructions to one of the serving maids there to bring Lady Celia a strengthening broth with meat in it when he caught sight of a familiar face at a stone sink in the far back of the scullery

Lady Miriam was in the process of washing off a very grimy puppy who did not seem to appreciate the bath in the least, and was whimpering piteously. "Oh hush," she murmured to the little creature, "One would think I was skinning you _alive_ from all the fuss you are making."

Curious, Merivel wandered over and watched as she expertly managed to clean the puppy thoroughly, even getting its paw pads and feathery tail washed off. When done she promptly wrapped it in a layer of old, clean linen and rubbed lightly, dodging the questing pink tongue and letting the puppy dry itself by wiggling in her gentle but secure grip. He smiled, and suddenly aware of him, Lady Miriam looked up.

Her defensive expression relaxed, and she managed a slight smile in return. "Merivel. I was told you would be attending the birth. Is it done?"

"Indeed. Lady Celia has a fine son," Merivel returned lightly, aware of the irony adding, "The King suggests the name Edward."

"A good name," Lady Miriam agreed, her mouth twisting in a wry smile. "Oof!" This last was to the puppy, who in his wriggling had managed to bump her chin with the top of his head. Merivel took the dog from her and petted it gently. The puppy, thrilled at the attention, began to lick fingers. Any fingers.

"He seems a bit . . ." Merivel began, and Lady Miriam nodded.

"Scrawny, but enthusiastic, yes. Runt of the litter, and the master of the hounds wanted to drown him, but I . . . persuaded Duncan to change his mind," she replied. "The little thing can't help its situation, and if nobody else claims him, I'll take him myself."

"Still taking care of the helpless?" he asked quietly, shooting her a knowing look.

Lady Miriam said nothing for a moment, and the he heard her sigh, reaching a hand out to the puppy's head. "I hear you are back in the king's favor. Does this mean you are returning to court then?"

Merivel shook his head firmly, his mouth set. "No. I have a life outside this . . . gilded cage."

"I'm glad of it, then," Lady Miriam told him, and he heard the smallest hint of envy in her tone. "You deserve it."

"I think not, but I have tried to_ earn_ it," Merivel replied quietly. "And you . . . Miriam?" he remembered her name.

"Still here," she admitted, and didn't meet his eye. "And probably shall be until the queen . . . has no further need of me."

The puppy broke the awkward silence between them by whining softly, and Miriam reached for him, taking the wiggly pup gently from Merivel. "Hush now, little thing. We'll find you a cut bone and see how you like it," she murmured to the puppy. Looking up, Miriam added, "thank you for your help, sir. I wish you well."

Merivel watched her go, feeling a pang for her solemn pride and loneliness, an empathy that he knew he could never express.

*** *** ***

Miriam sat quietly amid the women looking at Celia's little son. Most of them handled the babe a bit awkwardly, and passed him off as soon as he began to fuss. One had the audacity to complain about his milkspit, but Miriam didn't mind that and reached for the child without a word.

He was heavy, but smelled sweet; rosewater and soft new skin, and she brought him to her shoulder and let him rest his head there as his mother let a few of the other ladies brush her long hair.

"My little Edward," Celia cooed, smiling tiredly. "So big and strong. I fear it will be a while before I can return to . . . attending the king."

The other women laughed at this sly observation. Miriam rubbed the baby's back and he burped. This made everyone laugh again, and Celia eyed her with a smile of respect. "You're good with little ones, Lady Miriam."

"I had many brothers and sisters, my lady," she replied. "And cousins."

At that point there was a stir at the door, and the king entered. All the ladies rose and curtseyed; he waved them out. Miriam hesitated but he gave her a nod to stay since she still held the baby.

When the three of them were alone, the king came to Celia's bedside and bent to kiss her; Miriam turned away carrying the baby to a distant window, blushing. She stood there cuddling the child to give the couple their privacy, but little sounds and scraps of conversation came through to her nonetheless.

" . . . A dukedom . . ."

"My love . . ."

Miriam hummed for a while, wanting to carry the baby out but aware that any movement on her part would remind the lovers of her presence. Court, she thought with resignation, was often like this; pretending not to hear what everyone knew already.

In her arms the baby stirred, and she rubbed his little back through the lacy gown.

"My child—" came Lady Celia's soft call, and Miriam returned to the bedside, gently shifting the baby to his mother's arms. The king examined his son, running a finger over the button nose and pink lips.

"A nobleman already. I shall make him Duke of Springham, with the appropriate lands and house, of course."

"Very generous of your highness," Miriam observed quietly. He looked from the baby to her and cocked his head in quick recognition.

"Lady Miriam, of the queen's retinue. A Branzaga in your own right, correct?"

She curtseyed in acknowledgement, and he rubbed a hand along his chin, clearly thinking. Celia cuddled her son, who yawned and went back to sleep, milky bubbles on his lips.

"Are you good then with children?" the king asked. "Other than babes?" Before Miriam could reply, Celia spoke up, not looking from her son as she wiped his small face.

"That she is, my lord."

"Hmmmm," the king murmured. He glanced from Celia to Miriam and spoke decisively to the latter. "Walk with me." To Celia he added, "I shall return in a few moments, my dear."

Feeling a hint of unease, Miriam followed the king out of the chamber and along the corridor. Long windows let in the sunshine, and the air was warm, but Miriam wasn't comforted. The king spoke as they strode along.

"The queen is a magnificent woman, worthy of every respect," he began. "A daughter of the king of Portugal, and as noble and gentle a being as God ever graced. As her lord and master I would do her no meanness or insult if I could save her such."

Miriam nodded, unsure where this was going. She knew that his Majesty was in fact very considerate of the Queen despite a court full of mistresses, and that relations between their majesties were extremely cordial.

"To that end, though, I cannot harbor the insult to her Majesty of a Branzaga attending to my bastard son. You _do_ see this, do you not?"

She did. Miriam swallowed, aware of a churning in her stomach and an ache in her head. To be cut off from the happy circle of women around the new baby was painful, but the king had a sound point of honor, and Miriam knew that her continued presence with Lady Celia's son would definitely be seen as a public slight to the queen. "Yes, your Majesty," Miriam replied dully.

"Still, it would be a pity to waste the natural talents evident in you, Lady Miriam. As it so happens, I know of a worthy person in need of a nursemaid of court standing for his child," the king continued in his confident manner. "A person of honor to whom I owe much. His time is now divided between London and his estate, and because of that circumstance, his daughter lacks someone of a gentler and more elevated situation for guidance."

"Surely the child's mother--" Miriam interjected, but the king shook his head.

"The mother is dead and the daughter is not yet two, I believe. An age full of curiosity and dangers," the king pointed out thoughtfully. "I am sure the queen herself would agree that your steady guidance would be much appreciated in this matter."

She felt a twinge of panic; the king was quick to make decisions, and Miriam knew that once made, they took little less than a miracle to reverse, even with the Queen's intercession. "Your Majesty, to leave court for the home of a stranger--"

"Hardly a distance and hardly a stranger, Lady Miriam," the King predicted. He stopped and studied her, lifting her chin with his hand; instinctively Miriam flinched.

His expression was sharp, but compassionate. "Your features are regular and your complexion slightly dark; altogether you are not displeasing to look upon, Lady Miriam. Nevertheless, you will *never* stand out among the English roses of this court, my dear. Better to be transplanted to where you may find a chance to blossom, eh?"

She held his gaze a proud, bleak moment before lowering her eyes in submission. "As you say, your majesty."

The King nodded, satisfied.

*** *** ***

"A nursemaid? Is he . . . no, of course he's not mad," Merivel muttered, scanning the letter and aware of the people around him, bustling in the main room of the hospital, "he IS the king, and he will have his reasons, murky though they may appear to me at the moment. But still . . ."

"Best to let Will know so he can air out one of the good rooms then," Biddy murmured, bringing Merivel back from his reverie. "Shall I tell him directly when I return to Bidnold?" The midwife stood patiently waiting for him to say something. Merivel pursed his mouth, reading on for a moment.

"A lady of good birth, modest and virtuous, with all manner of courtly accomplishments all the better to instruct your daughter . . . oh dear God! As if there is anything I *want* a woman of the court to teach Margaret!"

Biddy bit back a smile. "Oh there's music, an' fine needlework, like, sir. Maybe how to read a verse or two from the Good Book."

"What I prize most about you, Biddy," Merivel told her before planting a quick kiss on her old forehead, "Is your faith that the king seeks the best for me. Yes, go and tell Will to prepare the east bedroom for our guest. I will be along in a day or so, and after that, we all will await . . . this new . . . person."

"Very good, Sir Robert. T'will be good to see the poppet again," Biddy told him smiling, and made preparations to meet the boat that would take her downriver to Bidnold. Merivel escorted her down to the dock and helped her into the skiff, paid the punter a generous sum to get her there before dark, and stood in the afternoon breeze, wondering how best to extricate himself from this latest action by the king.

It wasn't as if Merivel wasn't grateful to his majesty; the gift of Bidnold was high honor indeed, as was the promise of keeping it for a lifetime. But being so near to London was proving to be tricky, and being given the dubious honor of hosting this 'nursemaid' was precisely the sort of dilemma that Merivel had wanted to avoid.

He supposed this was a favor in return for attending Celia during her lying-in, and it was kind of the king to remember little Margaret, but still, Merivel had no desire to harbor an uninvited guest any longer than he needed to. He hoped the woman was of the same mind; it might be better for all concerned if she could be reasoned with and given a chance to quietly return to her own home or family.

Merivel shook his head; the last thing he desired was his daughter to be groomed for court.


	3. Chapter 3

He went back towards the hospital, mentally making a list of needed medicines to acquire and patients to see, putting them into priority even as he stepped through the doors. Merivel longed to be done in a day or two and head back home for the last lingering days of summer. The grounds there were especially lovely now, and the young doctors here at King's Hospital were capable of running matters for a month without him, Merivel hoped.

Dodging adroitly around a peddler's cart and neatly avoiding the man struggling with his recalcitrant mule, Merivel made his way in through the double doors to the apothecary shelves on one side of the long corridor within. "Sanderson! Do we have bay leaves yet?"

"Aye, and bladderwrack aplenty. It's been a good season for herbs," the apothecary, a small calm man, nodded confidently. "We've laid in rosemary, mint, hemp and bind-me in goodly quantities too," Sanderson pointed overhead, where bundles of drying plant life hung neatly. "I've put the poppy syrup under lock and key along with the other vials though."

"Good fellow," Merivel nodded. "Have you seen Broome?"

"He's at the books," Sanderson pointed, and Merivel nodded, heading that way. Before he arrived at the long desk, though, Broome—a stocky, barrel-chested blonde man with a thick mustache—looked up at him.

"Merivel. Still here? I thought you'd be half-way to home by now," came the light greeting. "You're certainly due the time away, man."

"Soon, soon," Merivel agreed, leaning over the table to look at the ledgers that Broome was busily writing in. "How do we fare?"

"Well, we have enough in supply and linen to last us half the year so far," Broome murmured. "And the Lord Mayor had pledged a per annum that should take us through next spring, God willing. More students coming, but most are already known to you and assigned accordingly."

"Good, good. And the patient with the, ah—"

"The feller with his pecker stuck in the wine bottle is still refusing to let us break it. The bottle that is, not his prick. God save us from licentious drunks," Broome sighed. "If he doesn't let us smash it soon, gangrene will set in, and what he'll have left won't even put a crease in his linens."

"Wine," Merivel suggested. "Get him drunk and then you can take a maul to his . . . ornamentation."

"And dull any further pain, should there be much in the way of laceration. Too bad he's not a son of David; he may be before we're done," Broome snorted.

"Do what you can," Merivel advised, patting Broome's broad shoulder.

The other man nodded and gave Merivel a quick smile. "And how was the birth? Mistress White says all went well."

"It did. The king and my wife have a son," Merivel said without rancor. "To be made a duke no less."

"A high honor," Broome murmured compassionately. "And has the king rewarded your service?"

"He has, in a manner of speaking. I'm gaining a nursemaid to help me raise Margaret as a lady," Merivel confessed dryly. "A dubious honor to be sure."

Broome looked faintly alarmed. "You don't think the king has his eye on Margaret joining court eventually, do you?"

"I will forbid it," came the quick reply. "I'll not have my daughter become some rake's plaything, not while I draw breath."

"Spoken like the former rake you are, Merivel," Broome observed, "but your point is well-made. In any case, you have over a dozen or more years in your favor, and by then, the king may have his sights on other matters."

"T'is to be hoped," Merivel nodded darkly, and moved to go pack for his trip home.

*** *** ***

Miriam felt the odd pangs of hope bubbling through her as the coach rattled up the long drive to the house, and tried hard to keep them from making her slightly giddy. Leaving court was difficult, yes—she'd been in the queen's service for nearly five years now—but knowing that her destination and more importantly, the lord within it gave her a sense of relief.

Robert Merivel!

Miriam had been stunned to learn that he—the hapless little court bantam of two years before—was in need of her services. Or rather, that his small daughter was.

Somehow it didn't surprise her that he had one, or that he cared for her. There was an element of sweetness to the man that she knew lay under his lighthearted demeanor, and that gentleness would make him a natural father. Miriam wondered about the mother, but sensed that she would find out soon precisely the nature of things when she arrived at Bidnold.

The carriage slowed to a stop, and Miriam shifted the linen flap to look out, curious. At her feet, the puppy leapt up onto the seat to join her.

The long lawns were lovely in the later afternoon light, and as the coachman helped her down onto the gravel drive, Miriam saw three people standing at the big front door of the estate. The first was the round, short midwife she'd seen at court. The other was a tall, older man with long grey hair and a kindly smile. He held a little child in his arms, and she had a thumb in her mouth.

"Welcome to Bidnold, Lady . . . ." the man trailed off, embarrassed at not knowing her name. Miriam felt a rush of amusement and compassion; she walked towards them, smiling. The puppy followed her, his tail wagging so hard his entire back end shifted.

"I am Lady Miriam Maria Isabella Branzaga, but I would be most pleased if you would call me Lady Miriam, sir. I do believe I have met you before Mistress White," she murmured to the other woman, who was bobbing a quick curtsey.

"Indeed Madame," the midwife quavered softly. "I do remember! This is Will Gates, who runs Bidnold. So you are our guest then? The one sent by his Majesty?" She looked nervous, and Miriam sensed the woman was worried about being supplanted.

"The same," Miriam assured her, "and the queen as well, all to . . . help you with the education of . . ." she reached out a hand to Margaret, lightly tapping her nose, ". . . this little one."

Margaret, instantly bashful, buried her face in Will's shirt. Miriam laughed gently.

"She's not usually this shy," Will tried to assure nervously, but Miriam shook her head.

"It's quite all right. I am a stranger, and I'm sure she was expecting someone more near and dear to be on that carriage. What is her name?"

"Margaret, my lady," Will replied. "Although t'is a bit long for such a small person."

"She'll grow into it, I am sure," Miriam replied. "She's quite beautiful and clearly well-cared for. How old is she?"

"Nearly two," Mistress White offered up, smiling broadly now. "And smart as a whip!"

"That's wonderful," Miriam nodded. "You must be very proud of her."

"That," Will nodded brightly, "we are." He passed Margaret to Mistress White's arms and turned to smile again at Miriam. "Let me see to your effects, Lady Miriam. We have a room aired for you already."

It took a while to get everything from the coach moved in, and Miriam knew better than to rush matters. She watched as the few chests came up, aware that they hardly represented a grand amount of household goods, but along with them came her bolts of cloth, her lute, a few paintings and of course, the puppy. She carefully shooed everyone out and settled things in where she wanted them, which didn't take much time at all. Gradually there came a knock at the door and a serving girl announced that dinner was ready.

Dinner was . . . lonely. Miriam sat alone at the table, aware of the social divide, and wishing she could simply pick up her plate and wander into the kitchen. As it was, only she and the puppy were in the dining room, and only the puppy had much of an appetite. Miriam finished a few more bites of her fish and rose, dabbing her lips before moving to the long window that overlooked the gardens. She promised herself time tomorrow to wander through them and see the lay of the land.

She also thought of how best to learn about Margaret, and thought that stockings might be the answer.

*** *** ***

Merivel ached; the horse was a good one, but a few hours in the saddle of any beast was no pleasure, and he thought longingly that a hot bath would be the first order of business once he dismounted. The long drive of Bidnold was nearly behind him, and the day had proved fair but not exceedingly hot yet; good spring weather.

He slowed the animal under him to a trot, and looked to the doors. Will was already making his way out, smiling, so Merivel called to him cheerfully. "Will, t'is good to see you."

"And you, Master, and you," came the cheerful reply. "How fare you, sir?"

"Sore in body, well enough in spirit," Merivel replied lightly, swinging down from his mount and giving the servant an affectionate clap on the shoulder. "Where's Margaret? Mistress White did tell you we're expecting a guest, right?"

"Yes, sir, in fact—" Will began, but Merivel had already handed him the reins and was striding past into the house, calling loudly for his daughter.

"Marrrrrgaretttt!" came his cheerful shout. "Where's my Tickle-tot got?"

Moving from room to room, Merivel called, looking about and feeling glad to be home. He stepped into the kitchen and out again, through the front hall, and turned to look through the long windows facing the gardens.

There. Out along the gravel paths was a small figure in a brown velvet dress and lace underfrock, swaying near the marigold bed. Merivel smiled to himself and moved closer to where she was and called once again. "Where's my Tickle-tot got?"

It thrilled him to see Margaret turn his way, her face bright and excited. Walking on gravel was still novel to her, and she tottered unsteadily towards him, arms held out. Merivel squatted and let her topple into his grasp, scooping her up and kissing her soundly. She gave a squeal of excitement, the sound cheerful in the serene setting of the garden.

Merivel spun with his daughter in his arms, laughing himself. "Who's a good girl then, eh?"

Margaret squealed again, and hit him with something soft. Merivel caught the floppy object with one hand and looked at it carefully; a little face stared back at him with big eyes and a mouth drawn into a smile.

A doll; a poppet of soft white silk, carefully stuffed and sewn in a crude approximation of a human shape. Merivel gave it a little squeeze and Margaret grabbed at it, gnawing one of the little hands as her father watched.

"I think she's cutting a tooth," came a voice, and Merivel turned his gaze from the toddler in his arms to the speaker, blinking as a wave of recognition hit him.

"Lady Miriam?" he blurted, "What are you . . . you're the one . . . from court?" His tone couldn't hide a sense of surprise and relief in it, and he noted her blush even as she curtseyed to him perfunctorily.

She wore another plain green dress, but her hair was tied back with a simple ribbon, and she wore no earrings this time.

"The one," Miriam confirmed with a hesitant smile. "I hope you are pleased, although nothing can be certain at times. Your daughter and I have been touring the garden, and she seems to know much more about pebbles and bugs than is good for her appetite."

"Yes, nearly anything that can be grasped can be tasted, apparently," Merivel agreed, grinning. He hefted Margaret up a bit, and she fussed, wanting to be put down, of course. Ever the way with the young. Merivel gave her another quick, loud kiss just to hear her giggle, then reluctantly set her back on the gravel. Margaret clung to his leg for balance, nearly pulling his stocking down before waddling towards the grassy edge of the lawn.


	4. Chapter 4

"She has a poppet; I take it that's your work?" Merivel asked, noting the way Margaret happily dragged the toy with her.

"The sacrifice of a few stockings and some ink is well worth it," Miriam agreed. "Every little girl should have at least one dolly to her name." She moved closer and turned to watch Margaret herself, smiling faintly. "She's a handful, but charming just the same."

"That she is," he agreed readily. "I take credit for the handful part but not the charm." Merivel sighed, "Margaret, no—" and moved to pry a handful of grass from his daughter's small fingers.

Fortunately no fuss followed as the child merely blinked and rubbed one eye. Merivel dropped himself onto the lawn beside her, groaning a little as sore parts of him landed more heavily than he intended. He looked up at Miriam and gave a sigh of relief. "You've no idea, none, how exceedingly glad I am that t'is you that the king has sent. All the way here I had visions of . . . well, it matters not. At least _you _have a jot of common sense."

"And how do you know I have common sense?" Miriam countered, settling herself down on the other side of Margaret, who was now working determinedly to pull off one of her own little shoes. "We've scarcely seen each other but a handful of times, sir, and I could be as full of frippery as any maid of the court."

He arched an eyebrow at Miriam that spoke volumes even as he fished Margaret's shoe away from the baby girl. "And every time we _have _met, you have been doing something practical, unlike others I have seen. And been," Merivel added.

"True," Miriam murmured, "I cannot argue with that. Margaret, sweet, are you sleepy?"

The little girl had stretched out on the grass, kicking at the sky periodically, one shoe and one socked foot waving. Merivel cocked his head looking at her with soft eyes. "She grows so fast. It seems but yesterday my girl was barely standing and now . . ."

"And now she's racing on the green," Miriam snickered. "She is giving Mistress White a difficult time of it in the chase, which is why I offered to bring her out here on the lawns. What say you to a leash for her?"

"Is she really so fleet?" Merivel frowned. "How fast can a toddler be, after all? In three strides any grown person might overtake her easily."

"Skirts," Miriam pointed out. "Men have far more freedom to run, Merivel, and even though Margaret has a skirt, it doesn't sweep the ground. She's a quick little thing."

The quick little thing was now sleeping soundly, splayed on the grass, and Merivel plucked a blade of grass to tickle her nose. Miriam gave him a slightly disapproving look that he ignored. "She's not very quick at the moment," he observed cheekily.

"Which leaves _us _with a moment to speak freely sir," Miriam sighed. "Let us be frank. I am here because I am both a potential embarrassment to, and a facile reciprocation for, his Highness. You did not request me, nor did I offer to come to Bidnold, so given these circumstances it would be natural to be resented."

"I hardly think I will resent you," Merivel murmured, his gaze still on Margaret.

"Not you, but your household shall," Miriam replied calmly. "While the staff at Bidnold may be used to visitors and guests, having _me _arrive to take charge of your heir is bound to ruffle a few feathers."

"Will's very accepting."

"That he is, and Biddy White too, for the most part," Miriam agreed, saying nothing more. Merivel picked up on the silence and finally looked up thoughtfully.

"She has been with me since before Margaret was born; there is bound to be a certain amount of . . . protectiveness and affection in Mistress White's heart," Merivel nodded. "That cannot be forsaken."

"I agree."

"If you agree, then where lies the problem?" Merivel demanded, confused. "She is Margaret's nurse and you are her teacher for certainly she shall need both."

"Your daughter is still a babe, sir—my services as a teacher will not be needed for a few years yet," Miriam sighed, "and until then, I am . . . superfluous."

"Nonsense," Merivel assured her. "The competent are never superfluous. And as you yourself have pointed out, my daughter may be more than Mistress White can chase after at times."

Miriam pursed her mouth and spoke with more hesitation after a moment. "Merivel, I am in an awkward roost. I am a guest, not a member of the staff, nor am I in any position of influence save my birthright as cousin to the queen. I am neither your wife nor sister; in short, I have no . . . authority, and as such feel . . . useless."

"Do you need some sort of authority?" he asked, cocking his head.

Miriam laughed at this naivety. "A little, at least. It would assuredly help me put myself to work where best my talents lie, sir. At court I was free to come and go as I pleased; I had the run of the palace and the freedom to speak and direct and learn from anyone I chose, from the maids to the master of the hounds. Here, I am under your hospitality—a mere _guest_ and although the king has made it clear I am to attend your daughter, the difficulty lies in the fact that you are not always here at Bidnold. I know that Will Gates runs your manor and staff and does an excellent job of it in your absence, but I fear friction if I speak my mind on anything other than Margaret's education." More quietly she added, "And you_ will _be absent much of the time, I know that already."

Merivel heard the frustration in her voice and gave a slow nod, recognizing the uniquely problematic aspect of her residency. He thrust his chin out and looked towards the house, where the sight of a curious face or two at a window made him blink.

"I should make you my mistress," Merivel laughed shortly. "That would certainly provide you with all the permission you need in running my household with Will's help."

"Your mistress . . ." Miriam echoed, her voice faint and dry. "Yes, of course. A romance for the ages, no doubt."

"You have hit the heart of it, Lady Miriam. It would be in name only of course; a situation I've some familiarity with," he pointed out wryly, "but having learnt my lesson now, I assure you that I would be true to my word in this case."

"A paper_ second _wife," she scoffed, but the faint hint of a smile touched the corner of her mouth. "I thought you were done with court intrigues, Merivel."

"If it serves a purpose," he sighed, and looked at her again. "Lady Miriam, let me be frank. I'm no great judge of women; my mistakes with them are . . . legendary. But in the time I have known you, I find you to be above all else, a practical woman. This is an undersung virtue in my estimation, and should in fact be far more prized than it is. If you desire work, then let me give you the keys to Bidnold and make you mistress here in exchange for a pledge that you will do all you can to keep it a safe haven for Margaret and a welcoming home for my returns."

Miriam looked around the gardens, and said nothing, but the soft admiration in her gaze spoke for her as she finally brought her glance back to Merivel's. "That is far _more _than I want, sir. All I ask is to be part of the house, not mistress over it."

"Guest or mistress," Merivel replied quietly. "For a well-born lady such as you, t'is the only choice I can offer, Miriam."

She said nothing; the truth of his comment hung between them, and finally Miriam drew in a quick breath. "Give me a few nights to sleep on your bargain then. Are you certain you have no other lady you might wish to bring to Bidnold?"

"Hundreds," he flippantly replied, and then cocked his head at her with a sad little smile. "At the moment, my days are too full for much courtship, and I find I prefer it that way."

"And you want nothing for yourself in such an arrangement?" Miriam asked softly. "Forgive my cynical turn of mind; I have been at court a long time, sir."

"I want a steady and happy household," Merivel replied firmly. "I want Bidnold to be the same sweet haven when I arrive and when I depart. Give me that, and I'll be pleased. All else is naught."

"A housekeeper," Miriam mused. "A . . . chatelaine for your castle then, although the title probably belongs to Will already. You want me to undertake all the duties of a wife with none of the obligations."

Merviel nodded. "Indeed; that seems to fit the need at hand. Is this agreeable to you?"

"I'll not be pushed," Miriam reminded him. "Give me a little time to weigh your offer. And now . . ." she rose up and bent to pick up Margaret, but Merivel was quicker, and carefully scooped his daughter up, shifting her boneless weight to his shoulder. " . . . she needs a nap and probably a good hand washing."

"Spoken like a nanny," He murmured with approval and a hint of impishness.

*** *** ***

Merivel decided that dinner was definitely entertaining. Normally he ate alone, or with Margaret at a little table just off the kitchen, but with Miriam as a guest, they all sat at the dining room table together. Margaret was willing to sit in her father's lap as long as he kept feeding her spoonfuls of applesauce between his own bites of his dinner, which consisted of braised eel and potatoes.

He managed quite well; mostly because Margaret was hungry, and he wasn't, but when she began to spit out her applesauce, Merivel wiped her face with his napkin and set her down on the floor. Immediately the puppy came over to help with the cleaning, making Margaret giggle. Across the table, Miriam said nothing, but the corner of her mouth went up fractionally, and Merivel decided that was a good sign. He rang the bell on the table and immediately one of the serving girls—Lizzie, the tall one with the faint mustache—came and got Margaret.

"I'll take her to Mistress White, then, sir," the girl murmured, dutifully hoisting Margaret up to rest on her hip.

"We'll be along shortly, after we've managed a few bites here in peace," Merivel agreed. When Lizzie and Margaret left, he turned his gaze back to Miriam. "More wine?"

"I need no more," Miriam assured him quietly. She dabbed her lips with her napkin, looking down at her half-empty plate and gave a sigh. "They're not like the ones at home."

"The eels?" Merivel asked, confused, but Miriam shook her head.

"The wines. There are sangrias that the queen imports that . . ." Miriam waved her hands and gave an apologetic smile, "They make the tongue sing, even when one doesn't say a word."

"They sound intriguing," he encouraged.

Miriam nodded quietly. "My mother's family had wineries, all through the hills east of Vila Viçosa, and I remember running along rows of vines under the summer sun. They would let us have small sips of pressings, and sometimes they'd sweeten it with honey from the hives . . ."

Merivel nodded for her to continue, and shyly, Miriam did, recounting carefree days when she ran barefoot with a pack of children in and out of the ducal castle and along the surrounding parks of her family's holdings. From the sound of it, Miriam had been a ringleader, and Merivel could easily picture her as a bossy, skinny girl directing her cousins and brothers in mock battles and games.

There was wistfulness to her recollections, and Merivel realized Miriam was a little homesick. To lift her spirits, he murmured, "You should start a vineyard here."

She shot him a startled glance. "You jest, sir."

"Certainly not," Merivel replied in good humor. "There is land aplenty, and more than enough in Bidnold's annual income from other stuffs to launch a small enterprise for you if you wish. While I cannot claim to know much about winemaking, it seems to me that _you _do, and if that would please you . . ."

Miriam stared at him uncertainly again, and this time when she spoke, her words held a hesitation very unlike her usual blunt self. "T'is a generous offer Sir Robert, and one that bespeaks well of your kind heart, but . . ."

"But?"

"But I cannot help to wonder what _you _will gain from the venture," she admitted. "My gratitude seems but a paltry return for the kindness."

Merivel laughed a little awkwardly. "Perhaps a barrel or two?"

Miriam snorted. "A bottle or two is far likelier if that at all, since England's weather is not nearly as dry or warm. This is the second enticement you have offered me in a day, and I find myself unused to such considerations, so I will say goodnight to Margaret and take my leave. Thank you for your hospitality, Sir Robert."


	5. Chapter 5

She rose and made a curtsey, then swept out of the dining room, leaving Merivel to watch her go. When Miriam had left, he rose himself and passed through the kitchen, nodding at the servants there before heading through the far doors towards the stable. The peacefulness pleased him, and although it was dark, a lantern hung outside the stable, giving Merivel enough light to guide him towards it.

Will was inside, polishing one of the saddles, and Merivel went over to him, leaning against one of the water barrels in a companionable moment. Will said nothing, but he managed a patient smile as he continued to rub the chamois across the grained leather in his hands.

"What do you make of Lady Miriam?"

"Sir?"

"Will, I trust you like no other," Merivel began with care. "You have been a champion to me in dark times, and a stout heart through my fortunes and misfortunes. Your counsel means much to me, and your eyes see truly. Will she be good for Margaret?"

Will paused before he spoke, as was his manner. He turned his hound dog eyes up at Merivel, and the serenity in them was a soothing as ever. "The Lady Miriam is a fine woman, sir."

"A fine woman," Merivel echoed uncertainly.

Will waited a moment and added, "When she first arrived, sir, she went with Biddy White and Margaret the whole day. She watched, sir. She saw how things were done here without putting herself forward."

Merivel nodded; that seemed very like Miriam, to observe and watch.

Will continued. "The next day she asked questions, sir. Why things were done or not done a certain way. Lady Miriam . . . listened. To everyone, even meself. I cannot speak for Mistress White, but that sort of . . . consideration tells me that Lady Miriam is a fine woman."

"Did she . . . change anything?" Merivel asked, curious now.

Will shook his head. "Not yet. I think she is still learning the lay of the land, to put it plain."

Merivel considered this, and his estimation of her went up again. "Would you take her suggestions seriously?"

Will didn't look up this time, but Merivel could almost feel the man's brief smile. "I would, sir. She'd have a reason, most likely, and one that would make sense."

Both men were silent for a while, and then Merivel stretched a bit and yawned. He gave Will a pat on the shoulder and made his way back in through the kitchen of the house, lost in thought.

The next few days were sweet, and Miriam found herself rising each morning with pleasure to slip into the nursery and watch Margaret. The little girl was stubborn and curious and a joy most of the time. She ate well and spent time exploring her world with busy little fingers and mouth.

The playthings at Bidnold were limited, but Biddy White and Will Gates had fashioned a few toys for Margaret, including a few carved rattles and blocks, and a little chair and table just her size. Margaret was clearly proud of being able to climb up on her chair and did so several times a day, expecting applause each time. Both Miriam and Biddy did, enjoying the child's accomplishment along with her.

"You'll have her a lady in no time, my lady," Biddy predicted. "Her so smart, and you so patient."

"T'will take a while," Miriam laughed, "Especially if she persists in biting. How many teeth so far?"

"Three," Biddy replied with a sigh, "and my fingers have felt the nip of every one."

"Soft wood," Miriam commented. "Mayhap Will can carve up a ring for her. How are we for wetting rags?"

Biddy's eyebrows went up. "She does go through them, doesn't she? We've a few baskets full, and the others being cleaned."

"She'll be nearly old enough to train to the chamber pot then," Miriam pointed out. "Maybe by Christmas, if we're patient."

"That would be a mercy," Biddy agreed, "Though it does get cold here in the winter, and a chapped bottom is hard a little one."

"Her temperament," Miriam asked softly. "Is she more like her mother, or Sir Robert?"

Biddy thought for a moment before answering, her gaze still on Margaret, who was chewing on her dolly again. "A lot of her mother's spirit, I'd say. I didn't know Katherine long, but she were a bold spirit for a woman."

Miriam nodded thoughtfully and didn't push for more; it was enough of a start. She gave a whistle and the puppy, who had been dozing in the corner, scampered over.

"I think I shall go and see the herb garden," she told Biddy White. "I won't be long."

"Very good M'lady," Biddy nodded. "Poppet and I will have a lovely time right here in the nursery."

Taking leave of them, Miriam moved through rooms and out the doors of Bidnold, walking with quiet pleasure down the stone steps that led outside. The puppy frisked along with her, chasing a butterfly across the path and stopping to sniff every new thing. Miriam laughed to see him at sport, and then looked over the beds of herbs carefully.

She knew enough of gardening to know that this was an old and well-cared for plot; the paths were deeply trod, and most of the plants were thriving nicely. Those that needed shade were under the oak in the corner. Those that needed to climb were bedded along the stone wall that ran from the corner of the kitchen wall out in a protective divider of yard and lawn.

Miriam counted them on her fingers. Mint, parsley, sage, rosemary, lavender, tarragon, basil and a patch of garlic that looked sturdy in the sunlight. Humming, she strode along, thinking of what each would be best for, and noting that dill would be good to add. Idly Miriam pulled a few weeds and plucked a few seed-heavy heads from the fennel, pocketing them as she walked on.

Turning, she looked over the garden, well-pleased at how full it was, and a little frustrated with a lack of work needed on it. Miriam glanced up and out across the lawn to the formal gardens there, and eyed the land beyond it, trying to see it with a vintner's eye.

There were . . . possibilities, she saw. Uncultivated land extended past a few rolling hills, and Miriam could picture the long trellises extending out in neat rows, with a few beehives to help with the flowering. If they could find a few good vines . . . She wondered if she could write the queen and ask if such could be brought from Portugal. If not the vines then a few of the seeds then. Anything small that could be added to some shipment due in from Vila Viçosa. It was a tiny favor, and the more Miriam thought about it, the more likely it seemed that her majesty would approve it.

This was a cheering thought, and Miriam turned for the house again, seeking Will. She found him in the long hall between the garden room and the salon, carefully instructing a houseboy on the art of rolling out a carpet, and when done, he gave Miriam a bow of his head and smiled patiently. "M'lady?"

"Will, I wish to ask you a question about the garden," she began gently. "Sir Robert has proposed a suggestion that intrigues me, but I would have your opinion on the matter before anything is done."

Will blinked, clearly impressed with the honor, and managed a shy nod. "My lady, whatever poor thoughts I may offer is yours, of course. What is on the master's mind?"

Miriam led Will to a window and pointed to the northern hills beyond the formal garden. "Just there, over the hills—that is still Bidnold land, although it cannot be seen, correct?"

"Indeed it is. Too hilly for farming, and too distant for garden work. We've let it lie fallow and small game to live there, my lady," Will murmured, interested now.

Miriam kept her gaze out the glass. "What if it was used for a vineyard?"

His eyebrows went up, and Will blinked a little, his own gaze shifting from the distant hills back to Miriam's profile. "A vineyard? I cannot say with any surety my lady since I've not the skill for such. Wine pressed here at the house has been of other than grape."

"Cider? Berry?" Miriam turned to him, a twinkle in her eyes.

He nodded. "Plum and apple, pear sometimes—cook would know better. Does Sir Robert know how to . . . make wine?"

"No, but_ I_ do, after a fashion. He . . . offered me the venture, Will, and I confess I am sorely tempted to try. I've missed having a purpose to my days. Not that caring for Margaret is a small thing, but . . ." she floundered a little, not sure how to finish her thought, but Will nodded gently, his eyes kind.

"The land is good, Lady Miriam, and truly, if you wish to essay the start of a vineyard, I will do what I can to help you, little though it may be. My back and hands are at your service."

Miriam blinked, touched by his immediate support and aware again of how different life at Bidnold was compared to court.

At court, no-one pledged support on a first conversation, and anything one truly desired had to be couched in careful terms, and negotiated for over time. It was expected that quid quo pro ruled the day, and any favor would need an immediate return in some coin or another.

But here, Miriam realized, matters were considered and done for the simple goodwill of the thing by people with no secrets in their hearts. They understood the practicality of speaking the truth, and made better lives for themselves by doing so.

"Thank you Will," Miriam blurted, feeling a rush of inner delight. "I am grateful for your support on this matter. I think this afternoon I will walk the land there and see it for myself. If it proves true to the purpose, then I will see to supplies and vines. We will not be able to do much before winter of course, but by next spring . . ."

"The good in this life follows the course of time, Lady Miriam," Will nodded agreeably. "It will be good to use the land for more than just rabbit warrens."

"Will," Miriam hesitated, and then asked, "Are there any . . . churches nearby? Many churches have vineyards . . . or is that not so in England?"

Will made a lightly apologetic face. "A few, but they make Communion wine; that is to say, wine that truly . . . _needs_ the grace of God . . . no disrespect intended, My lady."

Miriam laughed, loud and long before shooting Will a delighted smirk, and trying to regain her dignity. "None taken at all, Master Will. Let us see if we can bring up something respectable here at Bidnold, shall we?"

Will returned her smile, relieved and shyly pleased. "Lead on, then, and we shall do our best, Lady Miriam."

The days passed, and the golden sweetness of August stretched into September, and gradually the nights took on a hint of chill. Robert noted the turn of the leaves as he made his fortnight travels to and from London, and out in the park surrounding the house, Margaret took to playing with the twirling Maple seeds and dandelion puffs, although she often bit them as much as anything else.

The puppy grew from a small and skinny thing to a lanky hound with a lovely coat of white with butterscotch patches, and the matter of a name came up.

"Puppy will not do once he's a grown dog," Biddy White pointed out, "Not at all."

The discussion went on for a while, and then the arrival of a guest put the matter off for a while as both Merivel and Miriam took in the unexpected and unpleasant duty of hosting another of the king's set-asides who had arrived along with the wet chill of October. He stood in the front hallway of Bidnold one morning, dripping and sneezing, a forlorn figure in rain-soaked finery as bedraggled as any beggar.

Margaret, who was in Miriam's arms, put a finger in her mouth and stared at him with wide eyes, but Miriam's gaze was sharper. She looked to Robert, who was wiping away bits of toast crumbs from his shirt, where Margaret had decorated him. Merivel blinked.

"Finn?"

"The same, Sir Robert," came the low and snuffly voice, followed by a juicy sneeze. Instinctively all three of the household stepped back, and Finn apologized profusely. "Beg pardon, but the weather disagrees with my constitution dreadfully, and stirs my phlegmatic humors. I pray that you find mercy in your heart and allow me refuge here, if only for a night if that is all you can spare a wretch like me."

Merivel glanced from Finn to Miriam, his gaze taking in the twist of her mouth and the momentary flash of pity in her eyes. Wordlessly he studied her, and receiving her nod, turned back to the rain-soaked painter. "Come in and have breakfast, Finn. Sit close to the fire so you dry out as well. Will, bring a cloak for our guest—you remember Finn, don't you?"

"I do sir," came Will's dry and unenthusiastic response. He turned and slipped away as Miriam shifted Margaret to her other hip and lifted her chin.

"Phineas Finn. How chance does turn for each of us in time, I see. We have toast and porridge with milk and sausage—come and eat."

The painter looked up, his hangdog expression meek as his wig curls drooped with rain. "You are more gracious than I deserve, Lady Miriam. Thank you."

Over breakfast (of which Finn consumed a great deal in the matter of three bowls of porridge and countless sausages) the whole sad story came out, punctuated by Finn's remorseful sniffing. Margaret stared at him and hid her face whenever his gaze turned to her, and even Puppy stayed behind Merivel's boot, waiting for dropped morsels.

"You see before you a broken man," Finn admitted mournfully. "Unpaid, unacknowledged, and in the king's displeasure, all for my own folly in pressing my suit too stridently upon his patronage."

"And cherubs had naught to do with it?" Merivel asked cheekily before adopting a sober face. "Broken perhaps, but not without company, Finn. You and I have been at his Majesty's convenience before and this too shall pass. How came you here?"

At this question, Finn dug under his shirt and produced a parchment with the Royal seal; he handed it to Merivel even as he helped himself to another piece of toast. Merivel broke the seal and unfolded the note, scanning it carefully.

"You refused to paint his favorite?" Merivel questioned in surprise.

"I refused to paint bitches!" Finn pouted. "Particularly one that chewed my stockings and pissed on my drop cloth!"

Miriam tried to stifle a laugh and didn't quite succeed. "Lulu?"

"The same," Merivel shot her a merry glance. "Mother of our own Puppy."

"She was impossible!" Finn wailed. "Baring her teeth at me, and never holding still! I'm an artist, not master of the hounds! Give me a building, a garden, a graceful mistress in repose and these I can bring to life on a canvas, but I draw the line at curs, well-favored as they may be!"

"An unfortunate choice," Merivel empathized, "given how his Majesty dotes on Lulu."

"A ruinous one," Finn agree sadly. "Yet even as I changed my mind, seeing the tides of my fortune go out with the King's displeasure, Lulu would have none of it, or me. The ignominious truth is that I am here, hat in hand, to wait for some word, and in that time, I find myself with no money, no supplies and no future. I _beg_ you, Merivel, do not send me I away. I have wronged you in the past, t'is true, and I bitterly regret it, but my ways have changed and I am at your mercy."


	6. Chapter 6

This was greeted with momentary silence, and Merivel again shot a speculative look towards Miriam and wondered what she was thinking. He got to his feet and waved towards the table. "Give me a moment to consider the matter. Lady Miriam, if you would attend me—"

She looked startled, but rose, passing Margaret from one hip to the other. The three of them stepped from the morning room and into the little passage that led to the kitchens. Miriam gave Margaret a toast crust to chew and looked at Merivel questioningly.

"You know Finn?" Merivel asked cautiously.

"Yes," came her guarded reply. "We had an acquaintance. He . . . painted my portrait."

That was not a reply Merivel expected, and he blinked, instantly curious. "Did he?"

"Yes," she admitted. "A parting gift from an earlier time." Something in her tone made Merivel stare more sharply at her, and Miriam bit her lips; a gesture he now knew meant she regretted her words.

"And where hangs this portrait?" he asked quietly, fighting a sense of jealousy.

"In my room, Merivel. It's not . . . not fit for general observation," Miriam admitted.

"Show me," he told her in a calm voice. Merivel had an odd sense of anticipation, one tinted with a wariness he fought to conceal. Margaret held out a wet toast crust, her grin soggy, and Merivel took the offering from her, sparing his daughter a quick smile. "Not _you,_ my dumpling; Miriam."

"M'yam," Margaret echoed, laughing. Miriam smiled and used the edge of Margaret's bib to wipe the child's face.

"What a sweet goose you are," she murmured, stalling for time. "T'is kind of you to share your meal, goose."

Merivel gently took Margaret from her and settled his daughter on his shoulders, giving Miriam a patient look until she finally sighed and gave in. Carefully gathering her skirts, Miriam led the way up the back stairs, grumbling softly to herself. Merivel ascended behind her, noting the sway of her hips.

He enjoyed the sway of her hips, particularly when Miriam was vexed, and put more swing into each of her steps. The resulting flounces relayed her passionate temperament, and had recently begun to fuel his fantasies, much to his wry amusement. Not that Merivel would ever confess it to the woman rising before him, of course; his sense of self-preservation was much more developed now.

Still, it was impossible to deny that plain or no, Miriam decidedly had her charms.

"Merivel, it's hardly worth seeing," Miriam continued to protest, "Done more for spite than art. We had a disagreement . . ."

He followed her into the chambers and looked around, briefly noting the austere elegance of her plain bed and Portuguese furniture before scanning the walls.

Merivel spotted the painting and took a step forward, frowning even as he lifted Margaret from his shoulders to set her down. The child protested for a moment, then toddled off towards the nearest oak chest while her father narrowed his gaze at the portrait. "This is . . . an abomination, Miriam. A rude and utterly vile piece, as devoid of your true self as a skeleton is of meat and flesh and soul!"

Miriam lifted her chin stubbornly. "He painted me as he saw me, Robert. I will NOT argue with Finn's vision, however blunt it may be."

"If you will not, then I _shall."_ Merivel shot back impatiently. "He does no justice to your smile, the light in your eyes, the grace of your form. Mayhap his vision is failing, and _that's_ the true reason he's been sent from court."

"He saw the breakfast table well enough," Miriam replied touchily. "Merivel, the fault lies not in the talent but in the subject. My teeth_ are_ gapped, my form round; this picture is as I truly am, not some cherub-bedecked fantasy painted to win my favor or entice the king. Finn did me a favor, for if ever I find myself succumbing to flattery, I have only to cast my eyes upon this work, and truth returns me to my senses."

It was an honest speech, wryly given, but Merivel felt annoyance fester within him, and gave a scowl. "This is not _you,_ Miriam. This is Finn's petty anger distorting your features in his fit of pique, and sets me further against offering the man anything more than the barest of hospitality. To abuse a talent others would envy, and to hurt a lady who had done him no wrong as well is doubly damning."

"Who says I did him no wrong?" Miriam demanded, putting her hands to her hips. At the oak chest, Margaret was busy playing with the latch, crowing with delight by lifting it and letting it fall with a soft clinking rap each time.

"Blunt you may be, but deliberately hurtful you are not, Miriam. Whatever you said to Finn, he probably deserved," Merivel replied, looking to her for confirmation.

She cocked her head and gave a reluctant sigh. "He wanted me to put him forward to the queen; to convince her to assign him commissions and promote him to the court here and in Portugal."

Merivel pursed his mouth, his silence eloquent. Margaret toddled over, tugging on his breeches to be picked up, and he did so, settling her close. By happenstance, the child glanced over at the painting and blinked her big blue eyes.

She huffed, her features alarmed and upset, lower lip pouting out in prelude to a wail. Quickly Merivel turned, rubbing his nose with Margaret, making a face at her. "No tears little Miss, no tears even if it IS a frightful work."

The comment made Miriam laugh despite her intention not to, and hearing her, Margaret began to laugh too, reaching up to squeeze her father's nose playfully. Merivel let her, his eyes watering a bit, his smile cheerful. The three of them trotted downstairs again.

"You shall stay, Finn," Merivel announced without preamble. He swung Margaret down and straightened up, looking the painter sternly in the eyes. "On the promise that you shall paint no further atrocities like the one that hangs in milady's chamber."

Finn blushed to the roots of his wig, his thin face mortified. "Gods! Lady Miriam, allow me to destroy that abomination! That was my vanity, my pique! It would be my utmost pleasure to consign that monstrosity to the fire!"

"I think not," she shot back, her glance moving from Finn to Merivel and back again. "The portrait serves a purpose. However . . ." she paused, and gave a small, meaningful smile, "should you be willing to make amends, a proper portrait of Merivel's daughter would go far in that direction."

Finn blinked and looked down; Margaret was busy banging a spoon against the floor. Merivel shot Miriam a quick, admiring glance. "That would indeed be fair payment, Finn. I believe Will would know if we still have canvas and paint within the house, and you know well that the garden room holds the best light."

Finn looked dubious, but finally gave a courtly bow. "As you say, Sir Merivel, as you say."

The winter grew fiercer. Miriam and Biddy White worked to keep Margaret in warm woolens, the two of them knitting her small caps and blankets and stockings. Miriam was quick enough with her needles to produce scarves for Merivel, Will and Finn as well, and it warmed her heart to see Robert wrap his carefully around his neck before riding out to London each fortnight. She'd put his initials on it, and under those in small letters those of Margaret as well.

Merivel had liked that. "T'is a tender piece of work, Miriam, and much appreciated. I'm grateful to have a bit of her close to me."

The first snow came shortly after Finn settled in, and Miriam took Margaret out to romp in it. The child was delighted, as was Puppy, who bounded through the low drifts, barking. Miriam showed Margaret how snowballs were made, and even managed a little snowman no taller than the child, but soon the chill was too much for both of them, and when they went into the kitchen, Biddy White had warm milk and gingerbread waiting.

Will's nose stayed red and his cheeks ruddy; he hauled wood for the fireplaces and moved the cattle and horses into the lea barns, directing the estate men to prepare for a hard winter, securing the hay barns, laying in supplies and eyeing the weather thoughtfully.

Miriam asked him, and he gave her this thoughts. "The cold is rising from the ground up, M'lady. That portends a long winter. That, and the jackdaws have gone. If the river ices over, the Master may be grounded; let us hope it is here at Bidnold when it happens."

She made a face. "I do not like the cold."

"As you say," Will smiled. "The queen and yourself are from warmer climes, I'm told, and English winters can be hard. Even on those of us who were raised here."

"Sometimes I miss Portugal," Miriam admitted quietly. "I think the queen does too, for she never permits us to talk of it much. It was very beautiful, and warm . . . but that was long ago and I am here now, in a place that is beautiful, but . . ."

" . . . Cold," Will finished kindly. "Still, the damp will be good for the soil come the spring, Milady, and with the Queen's favor, your vineyard will be laid out. That thought is pleasant enough."

"T'is," Miriam agreed. "I am grateful for her Majesty's generosity in the matter, and look forward to the spring. How do we fare for the winter, then?"

"The harvest of the summer should sustain us, God willing," Will reassured her. "We've enough to last even, even with a guest."

This made Miriam laugh. "He _does _eat, doesn't he? And yet I cannot see where it goes on a frame that thin."

"He is a better man than he was," Will observed with unusual frankness, "and hunger has been a part of that humbling, if I may say so. It pleases Cook to have someone so grateful, too."

"At least he is making the effort on the painting," Miriam agreed.

The days were short, but full. Margaret was full of energy and raced around Bidnold, laughing with Puppy, who was now called Tyke, in honor of being her faithful companion. Merivel enjoyed chasing after the pair of them, much to the household's amusement.

He told his daughter stories—or tried to, anyway—and watched her grow with an amazed fascination. Miriam was amused at every new discovery he would relate to her as they sat near the fire in the drawing room after Margaret was carted off to her trundle bed in Biddy white's room.

"Such rapid speech," Merivel marveled. "She asked me about the birds on the windowsill today. And her feet—they're nearly as long as the width of my palm, Miriam. I had no conception of how quickly a child grows."

"Margaret is a bright one," Miriam agreed, trying to finish the repair on the hem of a shirt. "But then she_ is_ a credit to you, Robert."

"Have _you_ ever thought of having a child, Miriam?" he asked quietly. She looked up, so startled that she accidently jabbed herself with the needle.

"Oh!" Miriam fretted, pulling her hand free and examining it quickly. Robert slid out of his chair and knelt before her, hands cupping hers as they both watched a bubble of blood well up along her finger. Merivel pulled a handkerchief out and pressed it to the spot firmly, then looked up at her, cocking his head.

"I _am_ a physician," he assured her with mock-gravity, "trained to stem the loss of blood."

Miriam made a face at him. "No wonder you made the king laugh in your day, Robert. To give answer to your query; yes of course I have. Is it not the God-given purpose of women to bear children? We are taught early to consider it our duty, our highest calling. I've seen babies born and cared for them, t'is only natural to consider one of my own."

"So the thought is not . . . objectionable to you?" he pressed further, not rising from his knees. Exasperated, Miriam dabbed her finger with the cloth, not looking at his face.

"In the proper course of events, no, it is not. However, I lack suitors and until the queen persuades the king to recall me, t'is unlikely I shall have any. Perhaps in a few years, when Margaret is older, I shall return to court and be paired with a likely candidate."

"Such a waste," Merivel murmured. "To let your better years pass until then. You have natural and deep instincts, Miriam; I have watched you with Margaret and know there has never been a false step in these months."

Miriam shot him a sharp look. "Merivel, I do not know what game you are playing, or to what end. If you seek bedsport, there are women in the village who will accommodate you for little more than your smile or a handful of coins."

"This is not about bedsport," he replied with pink-cheeked dignity, "at least, not for the greater part. I was merely considering a brother or sister for Margaret."

Seeing Miriam's startled silence, he continued. "I grew up an only child; a lonely existence I would not wish on my daughter. Your tales of childhood; of your brothers and sisters have given me much food for thought, Miriam, and it seems to me that it would be good to provide her with more family while she is young."

Miriam drew in a breath. "This is . . . about Margaret?"

He nodded. "T'is. She is growing like a roadside weed, taller every time I ride home. She chatters now, and takes meat at the table. In a year's time my child will be . . . well, nearly old enough for the schoolroom. A person in her own smile and manners."

"There are still other women," Miriam pointed out dryly. "Prettier, livelier, certainly more experienced ones to give you children from the other side of the blanket, Robert."

"Women whom I neither know nor trust," he sighed. "I am done with playing the stallion afield, Miriam—I have neither the time, nor the interest to pursue the fairer sex as I once did. This is not a matter of lust, but of tender consideration for my daughter whom I wish to see with playfellows and kin of her own."

Miriam gave him a skeptical glare. "Prettily said my lord and I applaud your selfless intent, but to what advantage me? You are married, and have a house and knighthood, whereas I all_ I_ possess is my name and virtue. What dowry I have is held in trust by her Majesty, and I am here solely on the whim of the king; a whim that may change as swiftly as the wind."

"True," Merivel replied, "All true. I know the thought is folly since you do not care for me, but know this: I would claim any child of ours in my name, and gladly. A son or daughter of our union would be an heir of equal recognition and standing as Margaret, who herself is a bastard."

"You would do that?" Miriam murmured, a trifle startled, "And t'is not a matter of not caring for you. You are a good-hearted man in many ways, Robert, much changed from your first years at court. I am glad to be in your household. You are . . . very kind."

Merivel winced slightly. "Kind."

She chuffed in exasperation. "Kindness is an excellent quality, and rare in my past. Do not make light of its esteem in my eyes. You also have a great love for Margaret and Bidnold; both of those stand well in your stead too. I find you to be an intelligent companion and friend, but if you seek flattery beyond that, then you must look elsewhere, Robert."

"Flattery has very little to do with it," Merivel replied quietly, and for a moment he looked so grave that Miriam grew quiet. He took her hand in his and stared at her fingers. "Margaret's birth cost Katherine her life; no small matter to me. This enterprise, although natural and divinely decreed holds risk, Miriam, and I would put no woman through it unwillingly."

Without thinking, her grip tightened in his, and then she let go, startled at her own action.


	7. Chapter 7

Miriam wasn't sure what to think, so to avoid the process, she took up the daily chores with new intensity, determined to keep Bidnold sparkling. In winter this meant more dusting and sewing, and keeping track of the books. Will seemed glad to have her help on the latter, and together they pored over the household accounts, finding a few errors and uncovering a few treasures. But most of all, Miriam spent her time in trying to keep herself from thinking about Merivel's proposition.

For that is what it was, she knew: a proposition and not anything as emotional as a declaration of love. Miriam almost appreciated that he hadn't tried to woo her with lies or pretty words, while at the same time she couldn't quite fight a warm flutter in her belly at the earnestness in his eyes.

A suggestion, an offer—a proposal of a different sort. It amused her in a backhanded way that this was the first she'd received that warranted any sort of consideration. He hadn't made it lightly nor had he pushed her for some answer, and those aspects too made Miriam reconsider Merivel's words time and time again.

It would be a sin, she knew. For her, the matter of fornication was an issue to wrestle with. Her confessor at court, Brother Pietro, had been resigned on the sin, all too aware of it as the primary vice all around his Majesty's circle of mistresses. The greater part of the sin would be on Merivel, Miriam knew, since he would be breaking his marital vow, even if it had been created in the shadow of falsehood.

Complications, she sighed. She didn't love Merivel, but she respected his desire to give Margaret and himself more family. Miriam knew that Lady Celia herself didn't love Merivel at all, and had broken her marital vow to him within hours of making it, but that didn't make the situation any less . . . tricky.

She set it aside; Merivel said nothing further on the matter, and for that Miriam was grateful. They still took meals together when he was at home, and he graciously shared his time with her on all matters pertaining to Bidnold. Still, there were moments when she felt his gaze and knew he was thinking of the proposal.

And it was not an unpleasant thought for her either.

Merivel bided his time. He fell into the comfortable pattern of fortnights at home and at hospital, and in the time travelling between them, he considered his lot in life. The road was long enough to give matters a considerable amount of thought but not so much that melancholy set in, which suited him.

The poor of London still suffered all the usual ailments, along with a few new ones that kept him occupied when it spent his days in town. The reputation of the hospital had grown, and with it, the support of the mayor and aldermen as well. Robert appreciated the goodwill, but made it clear that gold and supplies did more to keep the King's Hospital running. He'd learned how to speak softly; how to remind these men of the good done for them, and in the end they supported him.

Sanderson and Broome kept matters in hand; two better men Merivel could never have found, outside of Pearce of course. The students were a mixed lot; some motivated by money, some by theology, but Merivel had learned to spot the ones with a true gift for healing, and worked to keep them at the Hospital.

Under it all, though, he thought again of the proposal he'd put to Miriam, and his hope would flare up, bright and secret within him. A child with her eyes, another daughter or even a son . . . another blessing indeed.

It surprised Merivel that he liked babies, and children. His own Margaret was constantly startling him with her bright and keen ways, her bubble-filled giggles and babble. He enjoyed her even when she was cranky or crying, and the quiet joy in watching her grow pleased him a great deal.

He never thought he was fit for fatherhood but like medicine it came naturally, with minor effort and much inner satisfaction. The questioned remained whether the same was true of Miriam, and Merivel prayed quietly that it would be so, speaking to his Maker in quick silent moments of meditation throughout his day.

The King occasionally summoned him to court; usually to treat anyone of the retinue who had fallen ill. Now and again Merivel would see Celia, and more often than not they would speak, comfortably now, and with more honesty than ever before.

"My Edward grows strong," Celia murmured, smiling. "And we hope to be blessed with another to be his playmate," she patted her still flat abdomen, and Merivel nodded politely.

"The second birthing should prove easier," he assured her, "I have found this to be universally so. Are you well, my Lady?" Merivel noted her pallor and examined her beautiful face quickly. Celia's smile went tight.

"In truth I am not, Sir Robert. My sleep is fitful, and I have no appetite, for whatever I eat, I cannot keep down," Celia confessed quietly. "T'is a bad humor I am sure, and to be expected so early in the bearing."

"Perhaps," he agreed, "From where are you taking meat and drink, my Lady?"

"I have my servants bring me the best of the south market," she sniffed impatiently, "and my wines are from Portugal of course. It's merely the newness of the babe, nothing more I am sure."

"As you say, Celia," he murmured carefully. "I wish you as much joy with your son as I have with my daughter."

"Oh yes," Celia nodded, her smile returning. "How is she? And that maid attending her? All are well?"

"Very," Merivel returned his own smile wide. "Had I known children were so entertaining, I would have begun my brood much earlier."

Celia looked at him keenly, and a corner of her mouth went up in wry admiration. "Your daughter is lucky then, to have a papa who dotes on her. Are you expecting another?"

"No," he sighed gently, "alas, I am a married man."

Celia blushed, lifting her chin. "Robert—"came her soft but stern warning; he waved a placating hand at her.

"No, no, you misunderstand. The lady in question considers it an impediment, not _I."_

"Hmm, then she cannot be from court," Celia murmured dismissingly. "Still, I am sorry to hear that—you deserve your happiness too. Have you offered her land? An income of her own?"

"She is . . ." Robert cocked his head, "proud," he finally admitted. "And somewhat more serious about her faith than I am. Still, I have hope that in due course, she will understand how fleeting time is."

Celia looked at him as if seeing Merivel in a new light; she reached out a hand to him, and her chin trembled slightly. "Perhaps," she breathed, "I should write her. A note from one woman to another can say more than we know in matters this tender and delicate. I do owe you a debt for the care you bestowed on me during my time bringing Edward into this world, and this small matter would help me pay a little for that blessing."

Merivel blinked at this offer, kindly made but unlikely to work. He imagined Miriam reading the note, and realized her most likely reaction to it would be anger and humiliation that his wife would know of these personal matters.

He shook his head and squeezed Celia's hand quickly."I thank you from the bottom of my heart, my lady, but the selfsame pride that keeps her from accepting my offer would be wounded twice as deeply if she knew I had confided in you. I have faith that time and devotion on my part will turn her thoughts in a more kindly manner to my proposition."

Celia nodded slowly, her eyes full of compassion for a moment. "I wish there was something more that could be done, Robert, and I am sorry that there is not."

"Thank you," he replied simply, and watched her go, worrying again about her pallor.

The snow started by the time he had mounted up, and was beginning to fall thickly, leaving the afternoon sky leaden grey. Merivel pulled his cloak around himself more tightly, and urged the mare forward, talking to her in encouraging tones as they took the familiar road home. It was a blessing to have ridden it so frequently; this trip was becoming more by feel than sight, and the growing darkness made him uneasy.

The wind stirred the snow in gusts, and by the time Merivel spotted the welcoming light of Bidnold, he could barely feel his hands. The mare was chuffing hard, and gratefully Merivel passed the reigns to Will, who was waiting patiently, wrapped in a wool cloak, his nose red in the faint light.

"Thank God you have made it, sir!" Will called to him over the howl of the wind. "For we are in for a night of it! Go in and warm yourself!"

Merivel needed no further urging, and trudged on numb legs toward the kitchen door, stamping to get his circulation going again. Inside, Cook and her scullery maid tutted and took his wet cloak, pushing a mug of hot wine into his hands.

"Master, we didn't think you'd come!" Cook murmured anxiously. "Lady Miriam has been fretting all day."

"W-where is m'lady?" Merivel managed, gulping a few steaming sips of the wine, which went down wonderfully.

"With the poppet and Mr. Finn in the drawing room," Cook assured him. "Trying to keep warm. Tyke!"

This last was to the pup, who was bouncing around Merivel's feet, feathery tail wagging furiously. Merivel petted the dog, who licked his cold fingers enthusiastically, and the two of them made their way through the mansion, reaching the drawing room a few minutes later.

With a glad little cry, Margaret held her arms out and charged him; Merivel laughed and scooped her up, snuggling her close. His daughter smelt of milk and bread, and she hugged him, then pulled back, shivering.

"Sorry sweetheart, I am a bit chilled," he told her gently. Beyond, Miriam was on her feet, moving closer, and slipped her own arms around him, hugging him.

It was sweet, and Merivel shifted Margaret to one hip, all the better to accommodate Miriam, who looked up at him, exasperated. "I was so _worried!"_

"So I see," he replied gently, smirking. "Yet I and my mount are here safe and sound, and not a minute too soon by the sound of the wind!"

"You are lucky beyond measure, Sir Robert," Finn replied, looking up from his sketch and offering a quick smile. "Lady Miriam was on the verge of riding out to find you."

"I was not!" she protested, then amended, "Will would not let me, although I promised I would not go beyond the border of the estate. He's . . . very aggravating sometimes. But you are home and safe and that is what matters most."

"Indeed," he assured her, reluctantly letting her go when she pulled away. Margaret was fussing to be let down again, yawning, and Miriam held out her arms. Sleepily, the child crawled into her lap, letting herself be rocked a bit. Merivel moved closer to the fire and poked it higher, warming his hands as he did so.

"Will tells us that this storm will rage the night through," Finn murmured, setting down his stick of charcoal and flexing his fingers, "and that we shall be snowed in by morning. I pity the souls on the river tonight!"

"Yes, there was talk at the hospital that several of the boatmen were predicting a hard storm," Merivel agreed, coming around to look at the paper Finn was working on. Small, beautiful sketches blossomed across it, scenes of life at Bidnold. Several were of Margaret; preliminary studies for her portrait, he realized. "Those are quite good, Finn."

"They are, aren't they?" the artist murmured with amusement. "I never thought myself up to the challenge of a model who will not pose, but there are times I do capture her likeness enough to suit my need. I think I will be ready in a few weeks, if that is agreeable, Sir Robert."

"T'is," Merivel nodded. "Take your time, Finn—in this weather, none of us are venturing out far anytime soon."

"True enough," Finn smiled, glancing at the window, which was dark. "And with that, I am to bed. Will advises us all to bundle together tonight, so I and Tyke are bedding with the grooms. Goodnight, Sir Robert, M'Lady—I shall see you both at breakfast." So saying, he unfolded his lanky length and rose, rolling up the paper and making his way out towards the kitchen.

"Bundling?" Merivel echoed, and looked at Miriam.


	8. Chapter 8

Miriam shivered and moved closer to the fire. "I'm sure you know of it; a way of sharing warmth through the chill of the night. Will thinks it the wiser course for the household than letting the fires burn."

"He's right," Merivel admitted. "He generally is. A banked fire is safer, and requires no servicing through the night." He closed his eyes a moment, remembering the flames and stench of the Great Fire, and it was only when Miriam touched his shoulder and he started and smiled briefly at her to deflect her worry.

"Robert, the staff . . . they assume that we . . . you and I . . ." she couldn't go on as the heat blushed in her face.

"They would," he replied quietly. "We are of our station and they of theirs, Miriam. Cook would no more call me 'Robert' than she would ride a cock-horse. T'was the same at court as you know, with every player in his or her position on the board."

"Yes, but this is . . . not right," Miriam blurted as she twisted her fingers around themselves. "Sharing a bed with you—"

"On my honor, I shall not touch you, Miriam," Merivel murmured kindly. "Tonight is a matter of necessity, nothing more. Faith, I'm so weary I will sleep before I rest my head on the pillows."

"You are," Miriam agreed. "And the sooner the house is abed the sooner tomorrow comes. Still, this is most . . . awkward."

"T'will pass," Merivel yawned. "I shall warn you though—I snore. Not loudly."

Miriam laughed gently. "So does Margaret. And Tyke."

Will banked the fire expertly and looked to make sure the heavy drapes were drawn before giving Merivel a nod. "Goodnight to you then, Master, Mistress." He stepped out of Merivel's room and closed the door behind him.

In the great bed, Miriam lay huddled against the chill of the sheets, the heavy coverlet pulled to her chin, her long hair tucked in a lace cap. "R-R-R-obert!"

"Yes, yes," he grunted back stepping lightly across the chilly floor. "Coming! T'is a mercy I passed my water earlier; t'would be an icicle by now. Or pissicle more likely."

Miriam snickered. "You look like a ghost."

He did in the long linen gown, which covered him from neck to ankles. Merivel sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the covers back, sliding in neatly. His actions let in the cold, and she gave a whimper of protest at the chill.

"Much longer outside of this bed and I'll *be* a ghost. Listen to that wind!" He blew out the candle.

"I hear it," Miriam responded tartly. "It's been howling all day."

They shifted a bit in the dark, lying side by side, barely touching. Settling in.

Merivel stared up at the ceiling, letting himself relax. It was difficult to make his chilled muscles unclench, but gradually warmth allowed him to do so.

The scent of Miriam was . . . comforting. He _knew_ it now; that warm womanly perfume tinged with the tiniest hint of the cinnamon she used for her toilette. Having her near this way felt right, and he gave a soft, contented sigh.

"Warmer?" he asked courteously.

"Much," Miriam murmured blissfully. "Everything but my toes."

"You may put them on mine if that shall help," he offered gallantly.

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes." He waited, and then she shifted. Merivel yelped. "God! You didn't tell me your toes had _died_ woman!"

"Oooooh your feet are so toasty," she sighed happily. "Youre warmer than Tyke even!"

"I am not sure whether to be insulted or not," Merivel admitted a moment later, and Miriam laughed.

"You're better by far than Tyke," she told him. "I am certain that your nose is not wet, nor is it liable to be shoved into my ear at dawn."

"Hmmm," Merivel yawned. "That remains to be seen. Goodnight, my lady . . ." He closed his eyes, gave into the warm darkness, and drifted off to sleep.

The night passed peacefully, and although the chill permeated most of the house, it was kept at bay by the banked fires and bedrobes; when dawn came; a cold grey affair, Miriam woke to find herself curled around Robert Merivel's linen-covered spine.

For a moment she stiffened, chiding herself, but common sense won out, and Miriam relaxed against his back, realizing that the shared warmth was indeed much more comfortable than sleeping alone. Indeed, for the first time in over a month she felt relaxed and far less stiff.

"Good day, M'lady. I trust you are comfortable?" Merivel whispered, not turning his head. She gave a small and contented sound.

"Very much so; t'is a pity we must rise soon and cast away this warmth, for it is far more agreeable than I would have credited," Miriam murmured. "You are wonderfully cozy."

"Thank you, M'lady, you are as well," Merivel replied, shifting to his back. "You were not kept from slumber by my snores?"

"I was not," she assured Merivel, turning to lie side by side with him. "Do you think anyone else is awake?"

They lay listening, but the only sound was the mournful whistle of the wind beyond the shuttered windows. Miriam gave a shiver at the noise, and nestled closer, glad for the arm Merivel put around her. "But that we could stay all day abed," she sighed. "A selfish thought, but there t'is."

"Two chicks in a nest," Merivel chuckled. "Three, if Margaret was here too."

"Why stop there? We could have Tyke up too, and he could take the foot of the bed."

"Finn would fight him for it," Merivel pointed out in a solemn tone that belied his grin. "And while I don't mind sharing a house, I draw the line at the company I keep abed." Seeing Miriam's amused expression, he added, "Truly, I _have_ become more particular on that account."

"Exclusive," she replied, and before her courage failed, her, Miriam turned and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. It was faintly scratchy under her lips, but warm, and dimpled as he smiled.

"A payment for warmth? I accept your token," he told her merrily. "The tender is one I am grateful to receive."

"Robert," Miriam warned him softly, and he sighed.

"I_ am_ grateful, believe me. You and Margaret and Bidnold are all I need to be happy."

She blinked, touched to be included in that rare listing, and rose slowly, making her way to her own room to dress.

The day passed quietly, with everyone indoors as much as possible. Merivel, Will and the hands went to check the stables and cleared snow from the thatching there before mucking out the stalls. Nasty work, but as Will pointed out, the excrement would poison the hooves, and foul the air if not carted off.

Miriam kept Margaret busy with beads to string, and endless games of House, where *she* was the baby and Margaret gave her all sorts of orders. It was lively fun, made more so when Merivel came in and Miriam pretended to cry.

"Mama Margaret is a tyrant!" she pouted, pointing at Margaret, who collapsed into giggles. "She is so very MEAN to me, Papa Robert!"

"My poor, poor babe," He played along, slipping an arm around her and pulling her head to his shoulder. Then to Margaret, he murmured, "we must *love* our Miriam and help her to be a good girl!"

"Me'am no eat good pie!" Margaret accused, pointing to the soggy mess of river clay that had been shaped into a suspicious lump. Miriam quivered with a suppressed laugh as Merivel eyed the inedible blob on the little table.

"Mayhap Miriam is full," he offered. "Although your pie does look . . . lovely."

"Eat!" Margaret ordered, giggling, and Merivel gave a groan. Carefully he picked up the cold offering and studied it.

"Very well . . ." with careful deliberation, Merivel tripped himself and dropped the messy lump on the floor, where it hit with a solid 'splat' of sound. "Oh dear! Papa spilled!"

Margaret laughed and spun around, making herself dizzy as she did so, and landing on her bottom. Between the sight of giggling Margaret and woe-faced Merivel, Miriam couldn't contain herself, and laughed heartily at the farce of it all.

"Spill, spill, papa spill!" Margaret sang out in a happy burble before her father scooped her up and snuggled her close, blowing wetly against her small neck in a tickling fashion. Giggles rang out again.

"Faith, you're going to make her choke!" Miriam pointed out, but she was smiling as she said it, and then both of them turned on her, and the chase was on.

The second night together was simple, and as the cold continued, unabated for the next three days, Miriam found it easier and easier to sleep in Robert Merivel's bed. He was marvelously warm, radiating heat through the night, and true to his word, he kept himself from any overt familiarities. Miriam enjoyed the comfort of someone near her through the night, and the intimate conversations before the two of the fell asleep. She found herself sleeping well, and in a better mood in the mornings, which seemed strange but welcome.

The rest of the household took no obvious notice of the change; no one seemed to consider it worthy of mention, and Miriam didn't know if it was a matter of tact or approval. Bit by bit, small personal items migrated from her room to his: her hairbrush, her small bottle of scent, her mother's bible. Since she knew hadn't moved them herself, Miriam suspected Biddy White and Cook of shifting her possessions, but to accuse would be rude, so she didn't.

Still, it was nice to be able to use her brush without scurrying off down the hallway, and they seemed to blend in with Robert's things easily enough. Miriam accepted it all with a wry shrug. They slept together easily, chastely, with time to talk of everything and nothing before they dropped off into slumber and before they rose to face the day. When the weather had cleared enough for Robert to return to London, Miriam found herself missing him much more than she wanted to admit.

000ooo000

Celia was far worse now, and they both knew it wasn't pregnancy but inner malignancy that made her thin cheeks pale and her appetite poor. Carefully Robert dosed her with poppy syrup and stewed greens, urging her to rest and working to keep her spirits up, but as usual, she saw through his demeanor.

"How long, Robert? Tell me truly, if you ever loved me," she murmured, lightly cuddling her son, who slept peacefully on his mother's breast.

"I cannot," he sighed, "Not with certainty, milady. I will lay in stores of syrup, but perhaps it would be wise to . . . to discuss patronage for your son."

Celia nodded tiredly. "Already a deed done. My brother and his wife will care for Edward, under the favor of the king, and be his guardians until he comes into his estate."

"The king loves both of you, and will be generous," Robert murmured, feeling helpless. It was difficult to tend to the dying, particularly when there was little else to do but help make the passing as painless as possible.

"Yes," Celia managed a smile which was only a shadow of her former ones. "I am glad, Robert, that we are close again, as friends should be. My death will free you to marry again."

"I would rather you lived," he pointed out quietly, "as would his Highness."

Celia laughed and it turned into a cough, nearly waking her son. She stroked his back until he settled into sleep again, and shot Robert a tender glance. "So would I, truly. However, I am content enough; I have loved well, and his Highness will not forget me. I would wish _you_ happiness, Robert Merivel. God knows you deserve it."

There seemed nothing to say to that; Robert bowed his head and kept his sigh quiet. When Celia fell asleep, he lifted the baby and soothed him against his shoulder, carrying the boy to the maid waiting outside the chamber. Robert examined the child, pleased with the healthy side and sweet expression on him before turning him over to the maid.

"He eats well? Passes water regularly?" He asked.

The maid smiled fondly at the baby, who was starting to wake up. "He does indeed. Edward will be a tall one, mark my words, Sir Robert."

He passed a small pouch of coins to her. "Should her son's health change in any way, send for me at the hospital, day or night."

The maid glanced at Celia's door, bit her lip and nodded before taking the small purse. "Yessir."

Robert slowly made his way towards the King's apartments, dreading each step. He'd barely reached the door before it opened, and His Majesty was there, face still and guarded. "Merivel?"

"Sire. Spend what time you can with her," Robert told him gently.

Pain and sorrow washed over the king's face in a quick spasm; an unguarded moment of human grief that lingered in his dark brown eyes when he composed himself and nodded. "I shall."

"I will stay and keep her as free from the pain as I can, sire, but the time is . . . short."


	9. Chapter 9

The king drew himself up in a move that Robert admired for the courage it took in the face of such news. "Your loyalty and kindness are deeply appreciated at this time, Merivel. Thank you."

Merivel bowed, wishing as always that there was more he could do, but the matter was now far beyond his skills.

-oo00oo-

The news of Lady Celia's death reached Bidnold a few days later when a messenger brought letters for Miriam. She read the queen's note first; duty demanded that. Her Highness spoke of the loss in gentle sorrow, her words a study in graciousness before filling the rest of the letter with instructions, advice and information about the proposed vineyard. Miriam read that several shoots and seedlings would be arriving by spring and she set the letter aside with a smile.

Robert's note was shorter. _Lady Celia is to be interred on Saturday, and I will ride home after the service. God keep Margaret and yourself safe until I hold you both again, my loves._

Miriam supposed he was moved by the death; who would not be? She tried not to consider his endearment too personally, and went to show Will the news about the vineyard.

He was cautiously delighted, his shy smile saying more than his words. "I'm glad indeed milady, that the Queen favors you so. T'will be good to hire on men come spring, and turn the land as soon as it thaws."

"I will write to my cousin and see if he will send me whatever notes or records there are left of my father's work," Miriam promised. "They will be in Portuguese, but t'will be the work of a day or so to translate them for the advice."

"Helpful indeed, milady," Will agreed. "And for the particulars—the barrels and presses and such?"

"France, I should think," Miriam replied thoughtfully. "T'is closer, and the quality will be much the same, although we shall not need them for a few years yet. Oh, and the master will be home this Saturday, late I should think."

"Very good."

The business concluded, Miriam lingered a moment, and then spoke softly. "I suppose Sir Robert will be grieved upon his return and we must be gentle with him."

Will's expression was politely puzzled, but his eyes held a glint of wisdom. "In that case, your comfort will put him to rights, I am sure. milady."

"Yes," Miriam countered uncertainly, "now that he is . . . widowed."

Will's eyebrows went up in an eloquent question, but he merely nodded and bowed himself out of her presence, leaving Miriam to fret to herself.

But not for long; Tyke came barreling in with an errant stocking in his mouth, and Miriam wrestled Margaret's clothing from the dog, sighing as she did so.

"_You_ need a proper run, oh wild beast," she told Tyke, who eyed the stocking in her hand. "And I do too. Shall we walk down the long drive and back?"

That was more than agreeable to the pup, who cheerfully plowed his way through the low drifts of snow while Miriam walked behind him, bundled in her cloak and grateful for the stillness in the winter air.

It dawned on Miriam as she looked around across the frozen grounds and the fringe of dark, lovely woods that surrounded the estate that she now thought of Bidnold as home. The comfort here was real, and the freedom to live her days doing what was useful and needed rather than wandering and looking for purpose made her happy.

She blinked at this unexpected realization, and smiled, glancing upward, where the thin grey clouds blocked the sun, and sent a prayer of gratitude.

The sound of approaching hoof beats brought Miriam's attention back, and she peered down the road, at once alert and slightly fearful. Tyke barked, and plowed his way through snow as she tried to call him back. For a second she saw nothing, and then . . .

He came riding out of the arch of the trees, his horse dark against the snow. Miriam caught her breath at how magnificent Robert Merivel looked as his burgundy cape billowed out. He was hatless, and his own hair, dark and fine flew wildly as he rode forward. Catching sight of her, he called out, a sound of delight as he lightly slowed his horse. "Miriam!"

"Robert Merivel, what are you doing in this weather without a hat?" she called up when his horse had come to a stop beside her. "For shame, sir, risking your health to the cold!"

"Chide me not, woman; which of us is the physician here?" he teased.

"And which of us is possessed of common sense?" she shot back, but her words were light, and a surge of joy flooded Miriam's chest. Robert held a hand down to her, and she took it, thinking he was merely greeting her. Miriam wasn't prepared when he pulled; she yelped and left the ground, sliding up along the side of the horse, only to be propped against Robert's chest as she sat on the edge of the saddle.

"Ah Miriam, you have no idea how exceedingly sweet it is to see you," he murmured. She saw the sweat along his sideburns and the warm gleam of Robert's dark eyes as he studied her face. "I've missed you very much."

"I've missed you; is this safe?" Miriam fretted, looking down uneasily. "I don't want to fall."

"You shall not, I have you."

"Robert," she looked up, and in that sweet moment, the air seemed charged with some thin, powerful magic thrumming through her, making her hesitate.

He did not, leaning forward and dropping his shockingly hot lips to hers in a hungry press that startled her.

She froze for a fleeting second, and then the rush to kiss him back surged within Miriam Branzaga, and she did, clinging tightly to his shoulders, losing herself in the heat and sweetness of his mouth.

They kissed again, less awkwardly this time, and Miriam gave a gasp when his lips parted under hers, the invitation bringing another wild rush of heat within her belly. Resisting Robert's tenderness was impossible now, and she didn't, deepening their kiss and savoring it.

Finally though, the need to breathe brought her up for air, and Miriam gave a shaky little sob, shocked at herself. "Th-th-that . . . I didn't know kisses were like that!"

-oo00oo-

He chose to say nothing in reply, not with the heavy pulse of desire flaring through him. Robert smiled at her, and tightened his arm around Miriam. Carefully he urged his mount forward, and the horse cantered, seeking home as eagerly. The sudden motion made Miriam clutch him again.

"Shhhh, we'll be home soon. I've brought some honey and cheese with me; a gift from Broome at the hospital. Has Margaret cut her second molar yet?"

These practical distractions worked, and Miriam responded to them easily, not looking at him. "Honey will be a treat, if Finn doesn't slaver it all on his breakfast. And yes, the second tooth is in, and both Biddy and I have the nip marks to prove it! The oil of clove helped, so thank you for leaving it with us."

Chatting easily of minor things, Robert brought them to the house, and when Will came out, he helped Miriam down without comment. He led the horse away as Tyke dashed his way into the barns, shaking snow off as he did so.

Robert laughed, watching him. "In the beginning, I never understood his Majesty's fondness for his dogs, but Tyke certainly has his own foolish charm."

"As do we all," Miriam murmured, finally looking at him. "Robert . . ."

"Let us take my bounty to the kitchens, and see how happy we can make cook, shall we?" he countered, handing her a sack with a smile.

He kept the homecoming light, and it thrilled him when Margaret raced into his arms, squealing happily. Cook was indeed pleased with the cheese and honey, promising sweetened cakes for breakfast. At the table, Robert relayed the news, touching on Celia's death gently. Finn looked subdued; an unusual expression for him.

"A tragedy. She was always a lovely model, and possessed of a superb ability to pose," the artist lamented. "I hardly ever needed to put in cherubs on _her _portraits."

"How is the king taking it?" Miriam asked quietly, and Robert shot her a grateful glance, glad to turn the conversation from Finn's art.

"His Majesty feels her loss keenly," Robert admitted. "In honesty, I doubt he will ever bestow as much affection to another mistress. They shared a rare degree of felicity in their time together."

There was a little pause in the conversation; one of those polite yet awkward moments, and then Finn cleared his throat. "Oh! And I suppose condolences are due to you as well, Sir Robert."

He shrugged. "I mourn the loss of a friend, Finn, since Lady Celia was a wife to me in name alone. Still, her passing is an occasion to grieve, and so I thank you for your sentiments."

Finn reddened a bit, and Robert could see him struggle with the painful memories of the last time the two of them had been in Lady Celia's company. Before Finn could say a word more, Robert smiled and rose from the table. "Lady Miriam tells me you've finished the sketches, and I would care very much to see them. May we?"

"Yes, yes of course!" the artist brightened and rose, nearly darting out of the dining room in his excitement. "I think you shall appreciate how I have put Bidnold in the background . . ."

Robert held out his hand to Miriam. She rose and took it, smiling hesitantly at him.

It was getting late but he knew better than to give any impression of rushing. Robert lingered over the household accounts, glancing at Miriam's neat script as it listed the inventory for the pantry, and then he turned to the pages listing what medicines he had at Bidnold, noting the dates and making another list of what to replace and restock.

Robert realized that with very little work he could turn one of the downstairs rooms into a consulting room. The idea both appealed and appalled; on the one hand, the idea of treating his neighbors held merit, but the thought of opening Bidnold to everyone including burglars or beggars made him hesitate. So far he'd treated a few citizens of the village, but that was away from home.

Still, he knew that the locals needed treatment as much as any London dweller—maybe more so, given that all most had here was a barber who was drunk half the time.

A clinic, Robert mused, would be ideal. Something less than three miles from home, and yet far enough to keep Bidnold the haven that it was. He wondered if there were any buildings to be bought in the local town when he heard Will moving about, snuffing candles and banking the fire.

"Oh," he murmured. "It's late, isn't it?"

"Yes sir," Will agreed lightly. "Most of the household are abed now, sir."

"Then I should be too," Robert sighed, and set the quill back into the stand. He glanced at Will, "_and_ you."

"Of course sir."

The single candle was enough to light his way, and Robert opened the bedroom door uncertainly. He hoped Miriam would be there; not only was it cold enough to make sharing body heat a sensible idea, but he also longed for her sweet and calming presence. He'd come to realize that Miriam was as good for him as she was for Margaret, and that beyond that, his feelings for this strong and wonderful woman were deeper and richer now.

That he loved her.

Still, Robert was cautious. He'd already blundered with love twice before and he was determined not to misstep this time. Miriam was too important to Bidnold to risk a faux pas now, and on that thought, he steeled himself for a lonely night.

But she was there, a huddled lump under the bedcovers, and seeing her, Robert's heart did a few joyous beats before he calmed himself and quietly began to undress. It was short work to pull on his gown and slip into bed, moving with care. He rolled to his side, away from her, letting his back press against her warmth gratefully.

She turned to curl around him, and the very sweetness of that trust nearly made him cry. To be comforted and give comfort all in one solidified the hope in his chest, and he gave a sigh of grateful satisfaction, pulling her arm around his waist.

"Miriam," he whispered contentedly.


	10. Chapter 10

She opened her eyes, aware that it was just before dawn. Something in the stillness told her so, and Miriam savored the peace. Soon enough the household would be rising and the day would start, but this hushed calm . . . and then she realized where she was, and who else lay with her.

Miriam drew in a quick breath, aware of Robert's chest under her cheek, of her arm across his stomach. From his breathing, he seemed to still be sleeping, and she relaxed again, aware of the scent of him, the warmth that radiated from his compact frame.

He was handsome, she thought. The chubby boyishness of years before had melted away, leaving a lean Spaniel-eyed man of compassion and quiet charm. Robert Merivel had tempered out into a rare gem, and added on top of that was her new awareness of him _as _a man.

She blushed, even as parts of her body tingled in memory of his kiss and anticipation with his nearness. Miriam _had _debated moving back to her room the night before, but too much was being stored there now, including several extra cloaks and Margaret's smaller dresses, and in any case, she hadn't truly wanted to return there.

It was difficult, this self-evaluation, and yet Miriam knew she could no longer pretend that Robert was anything less to her now than what he was, and _that_ truth had kept her curled in a tight little ball until she'd fallen asleep.

But now . . . now she was free to hold him and let her heart lighten a bit as she snuggled closer, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin. The laces at his neckline had undone, and through the gap she could see his chest, lightly furred and pale, and without thinking, Miriam slipped her hand to lay her palm against his skin, wanting to feel his heartbeat.

It was there, quick and firm as Robert opened his eyes. He shifted his gaze to her, and the very openness of his face left her a little breathless. He'd always had fine eyes, but the expression in them now— full of tenderness and trust—gave her enough courage.

"Yes," Miriam murmured, hoping that would say everything.

He smiled. Slowly, Robert held out his arms to her, and Miriam slipped into them, savoring the warmth that enfolded her as his hug tightened around her form. They lay together a while, not speaking in the semi-darkness.

Gradually though, Miriam leaned up and experimentally pressed her lips against his cheek, which was scratchy. He turned his face and shifted, pulling her up and kissing her fully on the mouth, and the glorious rush of pleasure at that sweet action made her whimper.

She'd known about lovemaking; it was impossible not to at court where every darkened corner or empty room seemed to harbor lovers. Miriam had seen more than enough escapades there to have a fair idea of the process. At the time she'd scorned it as an irreverent and foolish pastime best left to those with no higher goals or common sense.

Yet now, the taste of Robert's mouth left her dizzy, robbed her of any thought other than to press onward. She kept kissing him, indulging herself in his warm sweetness.

"Miriam . . ." he sighed gently. "Dear heart . . ."

"Robert," she replied, propping her head on one arm and studying him. "Since yesterday I have been at a loss, sir, to understand why I feel what I am feeling, and the only answer is your kiss. It has . . . unlocked something in me, and I am left astonished. How can it be so . . ." she trailed off, looking at him imploringly, and he smiled.

"So simple?" Robert finished. "T'is the same for me, although I confess I have harbored tender thoughts of you for some time, Miriam my love. Given my past, however, I was loathe to damage our current convivial life in the pursuit of further intimacies."

Miriam blinked at him. "Tender thoughts?"

"The tenderest," he assured her with a chuckle. "You are beautiful and wise and altogether a woman of rare virtues,

Miriam Maria Isabella Branzaga. Even I, a foolish man possessed of little sense can see that."

"Sense you have in abundance now," Miriam chided him softly, "and I claim no beauty, sir."

"Your dark fine hair, your beguiling eyes," Robert murmured, his tone turning serious, "The honesty of your words and the scent of your skin, Miriam. The you of *you.*"

"I know nothing," Miriam whispered in shy humiliation. "Aside from you, I've not even kissed anyone so fully, Robert. I'm sorry."

He gave her quiet smile. "We _all_ start as innocents, dear heart."

"I don't want innocence anymore," she told him impatiently. "I know it's a virtue, and Father Leo has praised me for it, but that was my old life, in a time when I didn't know how much more there _was_ to the world!" As if to punctuate her words, she slid one leg over his, and her gown slid up, exposing the pale length of her shin all the way to her knee.

Under her, Robert gave a small groan. "Faith, Miriam, I'm at your mercy here, your servant in this and every other aspect love, but promise me that this is what you truly want, and not just an attempt to please me."

Astonished, Miriam glared at him, and felt herself dissolve into giggles at his worried expression. "Oh Robert, I'm no little Margaret, hoping to make you smile. I'm here in your bed, not at all sure of my place, and yet wanting you so very much . . ."

He pulled her across his body and kissed her, and in that kiss, Miriam felt a blaze of heat so bright and strong that it seared away all conscious thought. She found herself clutching him, following him from kiss to kiss in breathless delight.

He held her, and for the first time in her life Miriam felt small, and womanly. Under her, Robert's body was solid. She shifted to find a more comfortable position and let her knees slide around his hips, making him groan again.

"Am I hurting you?" she whispered anxiously.

"No," he replied huskily. "Although my physical patience is being sorely tested at the moment."

Miriam gave a twisted smile, her shyness and self-deprecation evident. "I beg your pardon; this is all new to me Robert. Teach me," Miriam beseeched him in a low voice as she brushed back a curly strand of her hair. "I've seen congress, but my knowledge ends there, and yet all of me . . . desires you."

He wrapped his arms around her and took a deep breath, fighting the twin sensations of panic and joy surging up in his body. The simple trust, the _honor _of Miriam's request had him keenly aroused now, and eager to indulge her while the cautious part of his heart understood the importance of making this first intimacy as special as possible for her.

It has been a long time since his last coupling; Robert hoped he had enough patience.

"Miriam love, undress me," he requested, amused at her blush.

"Undress you?" came her quaver.

"Please," Robert replied. "My body is yours to examine and any question you wish to ask, you may."

He watched her consider the common sense of this, and then felt reach down and pull the hemline up, dragging it over his form until he could slip his head through the neckline and tug it off. Robert's skin tingled as he lay exposed on the bed, half tangled in blankets but naked all the same.

"Ohhhhh . . . !" Miriam breathed, her face aglow with wonder.

"I assure you, nothing about me merits that sort of wonder," Robert murmured, pleased nonetheless. "My form is plain."

"To you mayhap," Miriam countered with a delighted smile. "I, however, salute your courage in revealing it to me. On your back this way, I cannot help but wonder if you want your belly rubbed, like Tyke!"

Robert laughed, and seized her hand. "Try it and see."

Boldly, Miriam did, running her palm along his stomach, stroking the warm skin and delicate fur that surrounded his small navel. She felt him shiver slightly and knew by instinct that it wasn't from cold, especially when her gaze drifted to the cheerfully bobbing shaft that rose between his thighs. He followed her gaze and gave a slightly embarrassed noise deep in this throat.

"Having no tail to wag, I am left with this impertinent member to salute you in return," he muttered.

Miriam blushed, but didn't turn her gaze away. "It does seem . . . saucy," she ventured. "So rosy. Does it pain you, Robert?"

"At times it vexes me," he confessed, "and has led me astray far more than any other instrument of sin, but for all the fellow's faults, he's given me a fair amount of pleasure too."

"Honestly admitted," Miriam nodded, still pink-cheeked. She hesitantly reached for it, and Robert nodded, willing himself to stay still. He was grateful to retain some degree of control; even so, the soft caress of her palm around his turgid flesh made him moan aloud.

"Oh!" she tried to pull her hand away, but he caught her wrist and spread his hand over hers, guiding her touch around himself.

"L-like this," Robert told her huskily. "Firm but slow."

Miriam followed his instruction, and marveled at how the shaft swelled to greater size under her caresses. It was like some marvelous toy, and she let her fingers explore its length and girth as Robert shuddered.

"No wonder your sex is so enamored of these," she observed. "Like vanity, it puffs up with the slightest encouragement."

"True," Robert grunted, "Miriam, please kiss me."

She leaned over him and did, and suddenly it was the easiest move in the world to stretch out on him again, closer than before, separated by a single layer of linen now. They kissed once more, with deeper urgency, and Miriam wriggled against him, driven by natural instinct.

It felt wonderful, and more than that, it felt _right _in a way that Miriam couldn't deny anymore. She fell to kissing Robert again, finding delight in the give and take of it now, lips and tongues playing gently. Without having to think about it, Miriam shifted her knees around his hips, straddling Robert, who seemed to like this new position very much, given the way his hands slid around her waist.

She felt achy and breathless and hot.

"Miriam, my love," Robert whispered in a shaky voice, "I will not be able to hold out for very much longer."

"Take me," Miriam urgently demanded. "Please!"

He gazed up at her, and she nodded, never shifting her eyes from his. Robert slid his hands down her hips and gripped her gown, pulling it up. Miriam fumbled, shifting herself to accommodate his efforts, and impatiently shrugged it off over her head. Her skin pressed to his in a kiss of bodies, and the sweet pleasure made her breathing go askew.

Robert flashed a tender smile up at her. "My wild-tressed love. I regret that there may be a moment of pain for this . . . over we go . . ." He rolled, taking her with him, and Miriam found herself under Robert now, look up at him as he held his weight off of her and gazed down at her face. "Will you trust me?"

"Always," came the quiet response. It was true, Miriam knew. From the first moment she'd met Robert Merivel she'd trusted him despite all his foolish and famous follies. He'd learned much, but had started life with that truest of treasures, a good heart and that had never changed.

He blinked, eyes wet, and shifted, stroking one hand boldly down the length of her body, caressing Miriam until she felt his palm brush between her thighs. Shuddering, she parted them, turning her face in embarrassment at her own eagerness. "Ohhhh . . ."

"There is no shame in true passion," Robert murmured, kissing her ear and neck. "You are so beautiful, Miriam Branzaga; so beautiful . . ."

She writhed as Robert's fingers danced within the seam of her sex, sliding with sweet slowness to make her breath hitch even as her hips rocked against him. "I don't . . . I don't understand . . ."

"Shhhh," he murmured, pulling his fingers away to lick them, then returning his hand again. "T'will be easier for me to pass within if you are . . . sated."

Miriam wanted to speak, but his touch began again and her body arched up against Robert's fingers, seeking release. She sighed and clutched him, lost in the sensations building between her thighs. As it grew more intense, making her moan, Robert nuzzled her ear and whispered, "Next time I shall_ lick _you here, Miriam, long and slow . . ."

The image and the stroking fused in her mind, and with a sweet cry, Miriam shuddered, her hips frantically rocking up against Robert's hand as dampness rolled down her thighs. She drew a long breath and slumped against the sheets, stunned and shy now.

Robert ached, but the joy of bringing Miriam to her peak suffused him with pride, and he brushed a curly strand from her cheek before kissing it. "Miriam," he murmured, grinning.

She pressed her palms to her face, hiding it. "If I were to believe the good Fathers, that was wicked, but . . ."

"But?" Robert prompted gently until Miriam let her hands slide off her wry expression.

"But I simply cannot believe it to be so. Oh Robert! T'is a sensation I've only felt before in dreams, and yet if _this _is the temptation that urges familiarities between the sexes, I can see why his majesty's court is often one large bedroom!" she blurted, making him laugh.

"There you have the truth of it," Robert chuckled. "The singular magic of our anatomies create this unparalleled pleasure, and when combined with the warmer richness of intimate emotion create a unique joy between those who love."

He watched her look down to note his continued tumescence with a hint of concern. "And now . . . ?"

"Only with your permission," Robert reminded her, although matters were becoming exceedingly critical now. The delight of playing with Miriam had brought him close to crisis as it was.

She flung her arms out, nearly hitting his nose, and laughed. "I am ready, Sir Robert!"

He smiled, and shifted himself between her knees, moving her legs apart. "Dear heart, you have no conception of how long I have waited to hear those very words."

After that, matters were quiet and slow. Robert guided himself between her hips, breeching her with gentleness. Miriam gave a gasp, but wrapped her arms and legs around his, urging him on. He was grateful for his years of experience and the modicum of control it gave him, but when she tightened her legs around his waist, Robert Merivel grunted and thrust deeper.

Miriam gasped and kissed his face, her muttered Portuguese exotic and sweet, even though Robert had no idea what she was saying. He was beyond caring closed his eyes and the rising heat of his climax seared through his body in heavy shudders, driving him ever deeper into Miriam.

Robert didn't collapse on top of her; he had enough awareness not to do that, but he managed to sprawl himself in such a way that he stayed joined with Miriam as they both drowsed for long quiet moments, each on the edge of sleep, lost in wonder. At least, _he _was lost in wonder at the passion of the woman in his bed. A virgin—well, a former virgin—with such natural heat.

"I am . . ." Miriam sighed, "sticky. Sticky, but supremely happy at the moment, sir. It has been said that old dogs do not learn tricks, but I confess that I have much to make up for."

"You are neither old, nor a dog, Miriam my love, and as for the rest of it, there is time for whatever you wish," Robert assured her. In direct counter to this promise, the long low wail of Margaret from the direction of the kitchens made them both sigh and grin at the same time.

Dressing was interrupted by kisses and whispers; Robert helped to sponge down Miriam's thighs before helping her into her gown. "Some blood but not enough to set," he commented lightly. "No more than a trace of your own courses from what I see."

"I do ache," Miriam told him sheepishly, "despite such lovely caresses beforehand, accommodating you was not . . . easy."

"Shh, lest I swell with pride," Robert chided her with a grin. "The cock has crowed; let us face the day."

This jest made Miriam laugh, and she made her way down the stairs to the kitchen, where Margaret was chewing hard on a ladle. The child dropped it and ran to her, tugging Miriam's skirts. "M'yam!"

Robert watched as Miriam scooped the girl up, snuggling her close and murmuring words of comfort. The sweet moment—fair head and dark head so close, linked by soft whispers—made him keenly aware of this new turn of his fortunes, and for the first time in ages, he felt a sense of gratitude to the Almighty.


End file.
